Читать книгу Beauchamp Besieged - Elaine Knighton - Страница 14

Raymond ran on, limping, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He cursed. Men who owned horses had no business on foot. He pursued the stag through the bracken. It led him higher, pausing now and again, mist swirling at its feet, only to dart away as he approached.

As if from far away, Raymond heard Ceridwen calling. But he could not stop to explain and let the stag escape. The air took on an opaque quality, as if a layer of thin cloth had dropped before his eyes. The wind died and the terrain grew steeper.

Raymond’s heart pounded, until it beat in his ears and neck and belly. His knee felt on fire. The old thigh wound, from the Welsh arrow, ached like the bad memory it was. He climbed the last craggy steps over the rotten, crumbling rocks of the tor. Wisps of fog gathered in the open space of the summit, gray fingers reached to meet each other in a silent entwining. Leaning over to catch his breath, he looked about. The stag was nowhere in sight, and Hamfast too had vanished.

“Sir Raymond!” Ceridwen’s clear voice echoed.

“Keep off! ’Tis unsafe.” Infested with demons, it was.

She tied the pony to a shrub and marched toward him. “What in God’s name are you about? Have you gone mad?”

Raymond kept silent, for in that moment he did not know. A long dolmen was before him, a horizontal slab of stone that had no doubt lain there since the beginning of the world. It rested upon two smaller stones, like a tabletop. The dolmen was waist high, but once it had seemed gigantic. Dread knotted in his stomach. He tried to swallow and could not.

Ceridwen stepped closer, brushing past his arm with the lightest of touches. He kept still until she was out of reach.

“What is this place? Has some enchantment taken you, sir?”

He stared into her clear, innocent eyes, then shook his head. She was the only thing capable of enchanting him, and that he would not allow. A pang speared his gut and the unwelcome past burst upon him, vivid and intense. “An evil remembrance.”

Ceridwen nodded sagely. “Bad memories are like infected wounds. They must be allowed to drain.”

Her knowing words surprised him. But never had he told anyone what had happened here. Not even his lord father, who had made an earnest attempt to beat it out of him. To speak of it might give power and substance to Alonso’s act of betrayal. Raymond rested his hands upon the bench of stone, its surface rough and gritty beneath his palms.

He rubbed his scarred wrists, the legacy of scraping his bonds against the stone to free himself that night. He had survived, but poor Parsifal had never been the same, ever at Alonso’s mercy, or lack thereof.

“What happened, then?”

He jumped at Ceridwen’s question. There she sat, still waiting for him to speak. He cleared his throat and looked at the sullen, brooding sky. “I had a—small disagreement with my brothers here, long ago.”

Ceridwen raised an eyebrow. “You do not care for the truth. Its lack will haunt you.”

Raymond scowled at her impertinence and climbed onto the stone. He lay back, touching the rough, lichen-covered dolmen with his fingertips. The events of that night still burned at the bottom of all his hatred for Alonso.

Ceridwen clambered up to sit cross-legged on top of the dolmen. “You had best tell the tale before the storm breaks.”

“I do not want to speak of it.”

“Are you afraid of my judgment?”

Raymond smiled grimly. “God is my judge, not you.”

She studied him, her eyes grave. “We all have fear. Or regret.

If one keeps it always at bay, one never heals.”

“I have healed. Many times. I am covered in scars.”

“That is not the sort of healing I mean.”

Raymond shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the young woman beside him. She was like a stick poking a raw wound. “Here is the truth, then. I spent an uncomfortable night here once as a boy. I woke at dawn, warmed by a great dog. The original Hamfast, as I named him, the great-great-grandsire of all that have since followed.” Never had he been so glad of another creature’s comfort. God only knew where he had come from.

The girl made no comment. The stone bit into his shoulder blades. The sky wheeled overhead, as though the slab he lay upon revolved on its own axis. Here he was, on the brink of war, of fratricide, no better than Alonso. He wanted to cover his face with his hands, but not with Ceridwen looking on. He was glad he had not revealed the sordid tale of his humiliation to her.

His life was a hell of his own making, and no amount of talking could ease the burden. “Where has that damned hound got to?” he snapped. He could face Ceridwen’s probing green eyes no longer. “Hamfast!” His shout rang through the woods.

“You should not curse the one thing you love. And mayhap the one thing that loves you.” Ceridwen rested her chin on her palm.

“Woman, when I want your opinion, I shall ask for it.” Raymond was about to add that she would have a long wait, when Ceridwen’s face turned white. He followed her stark gaze toward the edge of the clearing.

Gradually, out of the mist, the faint figure of a man appeared. Bare legs showed from beneath the ragged edge of a dark-stained tunic. His hair fell past his shoulders in tangled ropes. Bearded and gaunt, he stood in silence.

“A ghost…?” Ceridwen whispered.

Guarding his knee, Raymond eased down from the stone, the hairs on the back of his neck on end, his heart battering his ribs. The wraith seemed familiar. Was it someone he had slain, long ago? “Begone!”

The apparition backed away and vanished into the forest.

His pulses still pounding, but satisfied the thing had departed, Raymond turned to Ceridwen. “’Tis high time we left.”

“What was it?” she insisted, eyes yet wide, walking with him toward the tethered pony.

“I know not. It looked like…” He shook his head. It was impossible to nail down. “Probably some poor wretch so thin we could nearly see through him.”

“Perhaps. But ’tis unusual enough to see a white stag.”

Raymond rubbed his jaw, relieved that he was not alone in having seen the beast. “Never mind. I must find Grendel before he gets lost any farther. He is a great goose of a horse.”

Apparently content with his change of subject, Ceridwen held out the pony’s reins. “You are hurt. Do you want to ride?”

“Nay. I shall lead you.”

Ceridwen snatched the loop of braided leather from Raymond’s hand, flung it over the pony’s neck, and gave the animal a swat. It squealed and trotted off. The girl stood defiant, her face pale but radiant with unbowed spirit. “If you walk, so will I.”

He wanted no kindness from her. “Do as you like.” His beleaguered heart thudding in protest, Raymond turned his back upon Ceridwen and led the way from the dolmen. There was no point in bemoaning his choice in allowing her to return with him. He would keep his distance, as any prudent man would when confronted by something as unpredictable and desirable as this Welshwoman.

Raymond gave silent thanks when, before going a mile, they came upon horse, pony and hound. The equines shivered, head-to-head, contrite, but Hamfast sat guard, princely in his bearing.

Ceridwen trudged to a halt near the animals, and her slight form swayed as she rubbed her arms. Of course she was still weak from her wound, cold and hungry. Stroking Hamfast’s head in greeting, Raymond glanced from Ceridwen to the growing darkness, forming all too quickly between the trees.

“If you ride with me upon Grendel, we will make better time. Or do you need to rest first, a fire to warm you?”

She shook her head, her hair shimmering in black waves. “We had best push on with ghosts about, don’t you think?”

Raymond did not reply. It was difficult to converse with her calmly, to look at her without staring, to pretend he did not want her on her back, then and there. That aside, he did not care to spend the night in the woods.

To make matters worse, big drops of rain began to splash earthward, pocking the dust of the trail and making the fallen leaves bounce beneath their impact. With the opening of the clouds, a shudder seemed to go through the forest.

The back of his neck prickled. Danger. Close by, and more than he could handle alone, Raymond was certain. He caught a shadowy movement between the trees and straightened, hand on sword hilt. “Get behind me, lady. Hamfast, stay with her!”

There, from the deepening twilight of the forest, a group of men emerged. With silent footsteps and menace in their faces, they advanced, bearing lances. Pikes. Swords and axes. Without warning, they charged, yelling like demons.

Raymond’s furious reaction was lightning-fast. Shrinking away, Ceridwen watched in as much astonishment as terror. His sword whistled clear of his scabbard quicker than her eye could follow. He roared and swung it in great arcs, cleaving wood and bone alike. The attackers regrouped and set upon him afresh.

Beauchamp fought as one possessed, spun and ducked and sliced until four of the surviving men brought him down from behind. Hamfast stood between Ceridwen and the fight, quivering with the apparent effort of not joining his master.

Well hidden behind a tree, Ceridwen peeked through her fingers, horrified at the savage blows showered upon the knight, until he no longer moved. She quaked at the sight of so much blood, and was ashamed she could not aid him.

“Hah! Who would’ve thought it’d be so easy? He’s no such a dragon after all.” A big man grinned down at Raymond’s body, now being bound, hand and foot.

“Speak for yourself, you great ox.” Another man cradled his bloodied arm, and looked mournfully at his fallen comrades.

“Where’s the lass, then?”

“What lass?”

“Never mind, she’s hared off. The warden’ll get her and the other on the morrow, when it’s light. But this black is a grand horse, indeed! Need we show it to his lordship, do you think?”

Relieved that for the moment they were more interested in Grendel than in herself, Ceridwen waited, biting her lip. The magnificent courser, so easily frightened by apparitions, greeted the attentions of the strangers with even less grace.

He reared, snapping his lead, and struck out at them with his front hooves. Whirling, he plunged into the gloom of the forest, leaving the now captive pony to whinny after him.

Ceridwen watched as the men dumped Raymond facedown over its back. They left, carrying their dead, with Beauchamp in tow. An unexpectedly vast and painful emptiness yawned within her as he was taken away. Englishman or no, it was terrible to see someone she had thought invincible, defeated by lesser men.

She knelt and threw her arms about Hamfast’s neck, hugged him and wept into his rough fur. Was Beauchamp alive? What had the brigands meant, they would get her and “the other” tomorrow? What other? And, “his lordship” could be any of a number of warring barons along the Marches.

Her tired muscles ached and she shivered as the pelting rain began to soak through her clothes. She would have to find her way to Rookhaven and get help, following the path. But Raymond had said this was a shortcut, not the way he had brought her the time before. Nothing looked familiar.

Fighting down her panic, Ceridwen took a deep breath, and decided to follow the outlaws as best she could. As she took her first few steps, a soft trilling met her ears. The notes ran up and down, now sounding the song of a woodthrush, now the chirp of a sparrow. She must be dreaming. Small birds did not sing thus, so late in the day, and certainly not in a cold downpour.

Hamfast barked and a shriek left Ceridwen’s throat as a man seemed to materialize out of the air before her. The fact that he was doing the whistling, not the birds, stopped her flight for an instant. In that time she beheld the rough-bearded face of a young man, browned both by the sun and an abundance of dirt. His blue eyes were placid, his presence benign, and her fear melted away, leaving confused exhaustion in its wake.

To her relief Hamfast merely nosed the man, then sat down, apparently unworried. The fellow stood quietly, his wild tangle of fawn-colored hair replete with leaves and twigs.

Ceridwen caught her breath. This was none other than the ghost himself. No wraith, she was now certain, but a human, filthy, barefoot, and older than she had first thought, for there was white mixed in the dark-blond hair. She found her voice.

“My name is Ceri. W-who are you?”

He shrugged in answer and did not meet her eyes. Clustering the fingertips of one slender hand, he put them to his mouth. The wrist exposed by his motion was circled by scars, like those left by manacles. Perhaps he had escaped some dungeon, but the poor wanderer must be hungry.