Читать книгу Knave's Honour - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 8

THE UNPREPARED SCOT fell from his horse and hit the ground with a sickening thud. Blood poured from the gash in the right shoulder of his mail.

Crying out in dismay, Lizette rose, hitting her head on the frame of the wagon’s roof. Dicken cursed and slapped the reins hard on the horses’ backs. They lurched forward, sending Lizette tumbling backward into the bed of the wagon, where she landed on top of a shrieking Keldra. Around them, men shouted, horses whinnied and neighed, and in the next instant, they heard the clash of sword on sword.

The wagon jolted backward, then forward, as the cursing Dicken tried to control the team. Holding tight to the back of his seat, Lizette struggled to her knees and attempted to see past the big man’s shifting body through the flapping canvas opening.

It was as if they were caught in the heart of a melee, or two clashing armies.

Where was Iain? She couldn’t see him. Nor could she tell which side was winning.

Then she spotted Iain on the ground. He wasn’t moving.

Sweet Savior, Iain—the best soldier in Averette—wasn’t moving.

More of their men were on the ground, some bloody. Several more were fighting, swinging their swords from horseback, or engaging their opponents on the ground. Riderless horses ran from the road, the whites of their eyes showing, frantic from the smell of blood. The team harnessed to the wagon jostled one another, unable to escape.

Her sore head throbbing, Lizette pushed the sobbing Keldra away and grabbed a small wooden chest. She threw open the lid and found the dagger buried beneath her undergarments.

Dicken yelped. The wagon tilted precariously to the left like a ship in a stormy sea, then fell back hard on its right wheels as Dicken tumbled backward into the wagon, his large body catching the canvas partition and ripping it from its supports.

An arrow was lodged in his chest. Blood spread out from the wound and his eyes stared, unseeing, at the now-bare frame of the wagon’s roof.

Keldra began to wail. Lizette clutched the dagger and tried to think. They had to get away from here. If the men were all preoccupied by battle, if they were concerned with their own lives, she and Keldra might be able to escape.

Inspired by that hope, she grabbed hold of Keldra’s arm and pulled her to the rear of the wagon. “We have a chance, but we’ve got to run!”

Putting the dagger between her teeth to free her hands, she climbed over the back of the wagon. She hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, then looked up to see Keldra still sitting where she’d left her, her trembling hands covering her face.

Lizette took the knife out of her mouth. “Keldra, come! We have to run!”

“I can’t! I can’t!”

“Yes, you can! You must!”

A man came around the wagon—Lindall, on foot, smiling like the devil himself, evil intent visible on his familiar, homely features.

“Looks like somebody gave my lady a little toy,” he sneered as he ran his gaze over her and her knife.

Gripping the dagger tightly, she backed away from him. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home, at Averette.”

“If I stayed there, what would I get?” he returned, his voice loud enough to be heard above the din of the fighting men nearby. “Some food, a place to sleep, a little money for sport now and then.”

He grinned, exposing his ruined teeth, and his eyes gleamed with hate. “I’m a rich man now—or I will be soon. A hundred marks Lord Wimarc’s promised me if I bring you to him.”

Confusion joined her fear. “Who’s Lord Wimarc? What does he want with me?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, my lady,” Lindall said as he went to grab her.

She sidestepped him and turned, ready to run—until she remembered Keldra, sobbing in the wagon. Keldra, who was but fifteen, and terrified.

She spun on her heel and lunged at Lindall. He raised his shield, easily avoiding her blow, then grabbed her right wrist, twisting until she cried out and dropped her dagger. He kicked it away with his blood-spattered boot.

“Don’t try to fight me, my lady,” he snarled as he hauled her close, his stinking breath hot on her face. “I’ve got your men outnumbered, and mine are vicious brutes, trained killers from all over Europe. Your men are doomed and you’re mine now—at least until I hand you over to Wimarc. So don’t give me no trouble, or you’ll regret it.”

Her view of the battle was blocked by the wagon; nevertheless, she wouldn’t believe his men would defeat hers. Her men had been trained by Iain Mac Kendren. Outnumbered or not, it would make no difference. They would win.

“You’re going to be caught and hanged for what you’ve done,” she charged. “If you’ve harmed Iain—”

“Harmed him?” Lindall replied with a coarse laugh. “I’ve killed him.”

No! she silently wailed, her knees nearly buckling, as he tugged on her aching wrist.

“You’re caught, my lady, and now I’m going to get my money.”

Rage rose up, strengthened by her grief. Gritting her teeth, she planted her feet. Whatever Lindall planned to do, wherever he wanted to take her, he would have to drag her.

Curling his lip, keeping hold of her wrist, still gripping his sword with his right hand, he kicked her left leg hard.

“I said, don’t give me no trouble. I’ll break your leg if I have to.”

She nearly fell as he tugged her toward the wagon, but she managed to stay on her feet. She squirmed and struggled and tried to hit him.

“Stay there, Keldra!” she ordered when they reached it.

Inside, Keldra lay curled up in a little whimpering ball of fear. “Whatever he says or does, don’t get down!”

Lindall hauled her close. “Shut your gob, you stupid wench—you with that pretty little nose of yours always in the air, laughing while the rest of us have to work and march and drill, shouted at by that damn Scot.”

As she continued to struggle, another sort of look came to Lindall’s face, one that threatened to send her into a different sort of panic. “Wimarc never said you had to be a virgin. No, he never said nothing about that, so I’ll have you, and maybe your maid, too. Maybe the rest of the men should have a taste of you, too, before I get my money.”

Truly terrified, Lizette fought even harder, while Keldra began to wail louder.

“Shut up!” Lindall snarled at the poor girl.

Yet in that moment, while his attention was on Keldra, Lizette saw a chance. She put her hands on his armored chest and shoved him backward with all her might. He collided with the edge of the wagon, then fell forward onto his knees.

“Come on!” she called to Keldra—and this time, her maid didn’t hesitate. She clambered over the side of the wagon and started to run down the road.

Yanking up her skirts so she wouldn’t trip over them, Lizette ran after her. Her cloak flapped out behind her like a pennant in the breeze; her coronet fell off her head, and then her veil, but she didn’t care. Unfortunately, her bodice wasn’t laced for running and soon she could hardly breathe—but still she didn’t stop.

Until a hand grabbed hold of her cloak and jerked her to a halt.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Lindall barked as he pulled her back. “Think you’re going to get away when Lord Wimarc’s offered all that money, and I can have my way with you?”

A sob of fear and helplessness broke from Lizette’s throat as Keldra kept running, not looking back. Leaving her.

“Let go o’ the lady and drop yer sword, boyo, or I’ll be runnin’ you through and sendin’ you straight to hell.”

Lizette’s breath caught. She knew that voice. Dear God, she knew that voice! Sir Oliver, come like a hero to save her!

With a sound between a sob and a cry of joy, she turned to see Sir Oliver with the point of his sword pressing against Lindall’s back as the former second-in-command of Averette raised his arms in surrender.

“Go after your maid, my lady,” Sir Oliver said. “Now, before this blackguard’s men realize you’re getting away.”

She nodded once and gathered up her skirts, then hesitated. “And you?”

Sir Oliver gave her a smile that had no mirth or joy in it. “I’ll join you soon, my lady.”

Pleased, relieved, but far from feeling safe, she did as he told her, and ran.

THE IRISHMAN, who was sometimes known as Sir Oliver de Leslille, waited until Lady Elizabeth was out of sight, then ordered the lout at the end of his sword to go into the woods.

He hadn’t planned to interfere. He hadn’t even been following Lady Elizabeth’s cortege. Yet he’d been close by and heard the sounds of fighting, and when he’d seen the hard-nosed Scot lying dead on the ground, he’d known there was only one thing to do: find the lady and her maid and keep them safe.

Thank God he’d gotten to them in time … although he might not be such a hero as he wanted to believe. As she’d faced her enemy, her bountiful fair hair disheveled, her clothing rumpled and muddy, Lady Elizabeth had been no meek and terrified victim; he had seen the fierce courage in her eyes and knew she would have fought to the death to protect herself and, even more impressively, her maidservant.

“Hurry up,” he commanded the varlet who’d led the attack against the lady’s cortege, shoving the tip of his sword against the man’s mail-clad back to make his point.

As they entered the shelter of the trees, the lout turned around, wary, but not afraid. “You don’t want to kill me. I can get you money—lots of money. Lizette—Lady Elizabeth, the woman you let run off—Lord Wimarc de Werre’s offered me a reward if I bring her to his castle.”

These men belonged to Wimarc? They were no band of outlaws and thieves, but that man’s mercenaries?

Then this attack had been on his orders. But why?

It could be to force a marriage—except that Wimarc already had a wife.

Rape?

To be sure, Lady Elizabeth was lovely and spirited, and he certainly wouldn’t put rape past Wimarc, but abducting a ward of the king—which she must be, since her sister Adelaide was—was a far different crime from raping a servant or peasant, or even another nobleman’s daughter or wife. Wimarc wouldn’t dare do something like that unless he thought he could get away with it, or didn’t care if he roused the king’s ire. “What does he want with her?”

“Who knows?” the lout retorted as sweat dripped down his wide face. “What have men like us to do with the likes o’ them? It’s enough to watch out for ourselves, and he’s willing to pay if we take her to him.”

Giving Lady Elizabeth to Wimarc would get him inside the man’s fortress, but getting in was never the problem.

The problem would be rescuing his imprisoned half brother and getting out again.

Besides, he wouldn’t use a woman that way. Not any woman, and especially not any relative of Adelaide d’Averette.

But he wasn’t about to let this blackguard know that. “If she’s so important, maybe he’ll pay even more. That’s not so large a sum when split between so many.”

“Wimarc only offered the reward to me. Those others are Wimarc’s mercenaries. I’m not.”

The lout licked his dry lips. “And I wouldn’t try to haggle with him, not unless I wanted to wind up in his dungeon. Do you know what happens to his prisoners?”

“I’ve heard.” Slow starvation. A little food in the beginning, gradually diminishing to nothing.

Was Ryder still getting something to eat? Or had his time run out?

The lout took a step forward, only to halt abruptly as the Irishman raised the tip of his sword level with the man’s eye.

“A fellow’s got to look out for himself,” the blackguard said, desperation in his voice and sweat dripping from his brow. “Come, man, it’s fifty marks he’s offered! That’s twenty-five marks for you, and all you have to do is help me get hold of a woman.”

“You seemed to be having a little trouble with that woman.”

“That’s because she’s a hellion, but the two of us should have no trouble taming her. And Wimarc doesn’t care if she’s a virgin. Leastways, he never said she had to be, so add that to your payment. Twenty-five marks and a pretty virgin—that ought to be worth my life.”

The Irishman lowered his blade.

“I knew you were a smart fellow,” the lout said with relief. “Come on. She can’t run far. There’s her maid, too. We’ll have fine sport tonight!”

He went to go past the Irishman, but in the blink of an eye, the Irishman shoved his blade beneath the lout’s arm with a thrust so powerful, it went right through his mail.

As the Irishman held the former second-in-command of Averette in a deadly embrace, Lindall’s eyes widened with shock. Blood trickled from his lips and he tried, uselessly, to talk.

“Rape holds no appeal for me,” the Irishman said. He shoved the sword in farther. “This is for the other women you’ve raped, the men who died today, and especially the lady.”

TRYING TO DRAW IN a deep breath, perspiration pouring down her back and sides, Lizette rounded a bend in the road and saw Keldra hiding—ineffectually—behind a chestnut tree.

The girl let out a cry of relief and ran toward her.

“Oh, my lady,” she sobbed as she threw her arms around her mistress, “what are we going to do?”

Lizette gently disengaged herself from the girl’s fierce grasp. “We can’t stay here,” she said. “We have to hide and wait for Sir Oliver.”

“Where?”

“The safest place I can find.”

“How will he find us if we’re hiding?” Keldra wondered aloud as she trotted after Lizette.

“He knows which way we went, and we’ll watch for him,” Lizette replied.

As she plunged into the shadowy undergrowth, branches and brambles caught her cloak and hair. Fatigue and the stress of all they’d been through began to creep over her. She wanted to cry, too—to weep and wail and mourn for Iain, a good man dead because she had been reluctant to hurry home.

She swiped at her tear-filled eyes. Mourning and recriminations could wait. Now they had to find a safe hiding place not too far from the road so they could watch for Sir Oliver.

She came upon a thicket of beech saplings around what must have been a boar’s wallow. There was no boar using it now, or the muddy bottom and sides would be churned up. And it would smell of such a beast, too. They should be safe here.

She pushed her way through the natural fence, pulling Keldra along behind her, then knelt on the leaf-covered ground and peered through the slender branches, making sure she could see the road and anyone who came along it.

Keldra sat beside her, covered her tear-streaked face with her hands, and wept.

As they waited for what seemed hours, Lizette tried not to let despair and dismay overtake her, even though she was haunted by the memory of Iain’s death, and racked with guilt.

If she hadn’t been so annoyed at being summoned home like a child, if she hadn’t dawdled on the road, or fallen sick and then claimed she was still unwell and so must travel slowly, they would all be safely back at Averette by now.

Perhaps Iain wasn’t dead, but only wounded. Lindall might be lying, or he could have been wrong. Maybe if they went back, she would find Iain seriously wounded, but alive.

Yet she didn’t dare return to the site of the attack, at least not yet. Not until Sir Oliver arrived and told her it was safe.

Perhaps he would also know what this Lord Wimarc might want with her. All she could think of was ransom.

She finally heard something that prompted her to inch forward, moving more branches out of the way. Relief melted her fear as Sir Oliver, scanning the trees, jogged down the road toward their hiding place, his sword in his hand.

He was alone. Where was the rest of his hunting party? Where were her men?

She pushed her way out of the thicket, followed by the weeping Keldra. “Sir Oliver!”

He came to a halt and gestured for them to join him. “Stay with me and be as quiet as you can.”

“Where’s the rest of your hunting party?”

“I’ll take you to them now.”

“What about the rest of my men?”

“Dead or dying, my lady.”

“That can’t be true!” she protested, fear rising again. “Iain’s the best soldier in England and the best commander. My men are the best garrison in England. Surely no motley crew of outlaws or mercenaries could defeat them all.”

“They were outnumbered three to one, and now the blackguards who attacked you are going to be coming after you. We’ve got to get away from here as quickly as we can.”

It seemed her choice was simple: stay and risk capture, or go with Sir Oliver.

Without another word, Lizette put her arm around Keldra to support her, and went with Sir Oliver.