by Tamara Leigh
“I think you are right,” he said, then considered the mercenary hired to aid in this endeavor and jerked his head in the direction of the woman. Though he had thought to take her after dealing with Malcolm lest the priest at the chapel roused and rang the bell, he said, “With as little disturbance as possible, bring her to me.”
As the man urged his horse opposite, Pepin nodded to himself. Though he had one less warrior whole of body to attack the king, considering what was known of Malcolm’s companion, three would suffice.
He shifted his gaze to his father who was half of body and dark of vengeance, next the slippery one. “Keep watch over Sir Gerald. I believe already we have won, but should it go wrong, get him away.”
The man smiled, revealing several teeth needed pulling.
“Make ready,” Pepin said and drew his sword.
“D’Argent?” Malcolm rumbled.
Though Theriot knew the king had turned to search his prisoner’s face, he continued to listen, smell and taste the air—more, engage that other sense of which he was in significantly greater possession than in all the days since the blinding.
Fairly certain of what was here that should not be, he took three short strides to Malcolm whose outline was less distinct with the hill rising at his back. “We are not alone, Your Grace.”
“I begin to think that myself, as does Dubh, but best we resume our walk.”
Clearly not best were he concerned only with his survival, but doubtless he considered Lady Marguerite and the priest—perhaps even his prisoner.
“Have you men patrolling the area?” Theriot asked, once more relying on the other man to forge a path and noting the dog did not advance as far ahead now its protective instincts were further engaged.
“Only a small number of men since we are mostly at peace with our own and distant enough from the border no army can cross without notice being received well in advance of their arrival.”
“No army, but often of greater danger are the few unseen who slip in, slaughter, and slip out,” Theriot said.
The king’s grunt told he did not like being schooled.
“As they are mostly unmoving,” Theriot said. “I cannot be certain, but methinks there are as many as half a dozen.”
“How do ye come by that number?”
“The unnatural way, Your Grace.”
Though he sensed Malcolm’s curiosity, they continued what was to appear a leisurely ascent.
“It could be your family,” the king said.
“It is not. I would feel them.”
“Even if you speak true, I am to believe you would reveal them were they lurking in my wood?”
“They would not lurk.”
The man sighed. “I have faced more than half a dozen at once, and still I am here, my swing as sure and blade as sharp as ever.”
Theriot tried not to be offended the man believed he would be alone in what was to come. Though this D’Argent was not the warrior he had been, God willing the enemy would pay a good price to put him down.
“Woe to them I am eager to do some gutting,” Malcolm said with what sounded a smile, which made Theriot’s own lips curve. But whereas the king’s was likely due to the excitement of a challenge he would not feel obliged to explain to his godly betrothed, for this D’Argent it was anticipation of an outlet for what roiled within—even if the inability to see beyond light and shadows rendered this his last day.
Though tempted to retrieve the shard strapped to his leg, he would leave it until needed so he not lose it to Malcolm should the watchers prove only that.
“I believe they will strike once we are out of sight of the palace,” the king said. “Though the exchange of blows will be heard, sooner sense will be made of what transpires if it is visible to my men, and sooner aid given.”
“How long ere we go from sight?” Theriot asked.
“At this pace, a minute.”
“How long will we be out of sight?”
“The trees form a skirt near the top of the hill on which the chapel sits. Unimpeded, a two-minute walk, providing cover under which to work evil.” Malcolm grunted. “Now give ear. In these circumstances and on this day, we are allies. As I know you remain capable of inflicting damage, the moment they come at us, take the dagger from my belt and wield it as best you can. When possible, I will call out the direction of attacks on your person.”
Then just as Theriot had taken measure of the king, Malcolm had assessed him, and not merely by way of the women who spoke on his behalf.
“In ten strides, we are in shadow, D’Argent. Be ready.”
He was, and more so when it took another twenty strides before the riders commanded their horses forward absent fearsome shouts that would have sooner alerted the king’s men to what transpired here. However, Dubh’s ferocious barking should prove nearly as effective.
Though once more Theriot would be fighting for his life, and this time at great disadvantage, it felt good to hold a weapon that fit a warrior’s hand.
“Dubh!” Malcolm shouted as he lunged left. “Marguerite! Go!”
Theriot approved of him sending the dog to the lady since it was possible one or more of the enemy sought to harm her as well. Too, Dubh’s efforts on behalf of the king and himself would mostly be wasted, whether the animal was trampled or felled by a sword.
“Three ride on us, two remain distant!” Malcolm warned where they stood five feet apart, then he laughed. “I have the honor of the biggest ones, and they do not mean to kill me—yet. Not so the one who sets himself at you. He arcs his right-handed sword back. When I give the command, go far right.”
That would put Theriot in the path of the beast, but when he came out of it, he would have the opportunity to slice the rider’s leg. Unfortunately, were his timing not nearly perfect, the horse could be cut. Though the result might prove the same, the animal’s violent response unseating its rider, Theriot was not one to harm animals. However, being far from ready to die, he must take the chance.
“Go right!” Malcolm commanded, then bellowed ahead of the first meeting of swords.
Theriot did as instructed, trusting the blade coming for him was the other side and could not be brought over the mount’s neck in time. When the horse swept past, Theriot spun and, with a roar that would reach the palace’s walls moments after the king’s, slashed at where he guessed the rider’s leg gripped that side of his mount.
The horse screamed, and there was no benefit in that error as told by the animal being yanked to a halt and wheeled around.
From Malcolm’s direction, an enemy cried out and cursed in Norman-French. That gave Theriot pause. But though at least one here was his countryman, if the D’Argents had sent these men to retrieve him, they would have identified themselves rather than attack Theriot as well as Malcolm.
The king’s laughter burst across the wood, but his next breath was spent on the warning, “He charges again, D’Argent!”
Silently cursing his inability to see, Theriot assumed what he hoped was the proper stance.
“Backhanded swing!” Malcolm corrected, then once more steel met steel.
“Guide me, Lord!” Theriot entreated and altered his stance.
This time when the enemy’s sword sought to part skin from bone, Theriot ducked and turned as he thrust upright. He was too near, but before his encounter with the animal knocked his feet out from under him, the blade he swept high found its target and it was the rider who screamed.
Having embedded the king’s dagger in his opponent, Theriot landed hard on the ground.
It could not be known if Malcolm’s next bout of laughter was for his ally’s victory or his own, but Theriot heard the warrior he himself had stuck bring his horse around.
Snatching up the hem of his tunic, he retrieved his makeshift weapon, rolled to his feet, and strained his senses in preparation for the next assault.
“He is finished!” Malcolm shouted a moment ahead of the sound of a body dropping from a good height.
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Trusting his opponent would not rise again, Theriot turned toward the king who continued to battle the other two. It was then he heard the shouts of men on the other side of the glen. They came, but not soon enough.
Though he could make little sense of the shadows convulsing amid those cast by trees, he ran forward. He was nearly upon the clashing warriors when Malcolm gave a triumphant shout and a second body dropped.
Swords met twice more, then a curse preceded the remaining Norman’s retreat.
“Our fight is done for now,” the king said above the pound of hooves that increased when the two who had hung back joined the one escaping the bloodletting. “As it was no attempt by your family to retrieve you, we ride, Sir Theriot.”
Not to bring the enemy to ground, but to reach Marguerite and the priest lest they fought others, Theriot knew.
Were his vision not corrupted, he could as quickly mount the horse of the man he slew as Malcolm did that of the opponent he felled, but there was no time to make even a token effort.
“Come!” Malcolm said.
Theriot tossed aside the shard the king surely looked upon and swung up behind him.
“I did not know I was so near death before the attack,” Malcolm said.
Theriot hooked an arm around him. “Only had I been near death, Your Grace.”
The king chuckled and put heels to the horse.
Chapter Sixteen
Instinct urged Marguerite to seek the safety of the chapel, but remembrance of what the Aetheling had done turned her opposite lest the priest suffer like the Saxons when Edgar led the Normans through their village.
Had she not hesitated in trying to make sense of the one riding on the graveyard with sunlight glancing off chain mail and hair cropped in the style of the conquering Normans, she might have had time to find cover.
Armed with knowledge of the wooded hill opposite that which descended to the waterway, only when she committed to it did she catch the sound of a clash behind. Had she sooner, she would have risked fleeing there where Malcolm’s men likely battled other trespassers.
Hoping to work her way around to that side, trying not to think on when last she was prey, Marguerite wove among the trees with raised skirts, turning sharply when the rider neared and loosing screams the king’s men might hear. Each time her pursuer’s mount slid on the sloped ground, he cursed her in Norman-French, and more vilely when the gullies to which she led him forced him to jump the horse to prevent it and its rider from being broken by the fall.
“Lord, give me strength!” she entreated as once more the Norman evaded her trap and she had to drop and slide down a slope to further distance herself. If she could reach the immense boulders climbing the hill’s western face, she would be nearer the glen, and were that not deterrent enough, her pursuer would have to dismount to continue the chase. If he did so…
Though this time no Rebels of the Pale would come to her aid, the king’s men were near.
As soon as the the boulders were in sight, she heard the baying of a dog. Praying its master was not the one chasing her since the animal’s sure-footedness could take her down before she reached her destination, Marguerite glanced around.
Beyond the rider slowed by thickening trees that prevented his horse from running was a streak of black. “Be Dubh!” she gasped, then strained the reach of her legs and screamed again.
Did the barks turn more vicious? Or were they louder because the hound gained on the prey Marguerite might or might not be?
As she turned into dense trees the Norman would be forced to go around, he altered his course to negotiate the steep descent. When he was to the left and twenty feet beyond her, doubtless to cut short her flight once the trees thinned, she believed she had a chance of reaching the boulders ahead of him and turned back.
Though slowed by the ascent, it also affected the Norman who could not quickly come around without sending horse and rider crashing down the hill.
Above the barking, Marguerite heard a shout, then spraying dirt and skittering rocks as the man sought to arrest his advance.
Propelling herself upward, she reached the first moss-slicked boulders and, certain the hound should be nearly upon her, looked behind.
It was Dubh, and she sped toward the Norman urging his mount up the incline.
Fearing the dog would fall to the sword, Marguerite commanded it to her side, and when the hound ignored her, beseeched, “Lord, preserve her.”
Then once more aware of sounds around the side of the hill, now only voices in the absence of steel on steel, she thrust the hem of her skirt beneath her girdle and began climbing toward the center of the boulders where best she would be protected should her pursuer dismount. A moment later, a howl of pain made her whimper.
Dubh had sacrificed something—perhaps all—to protect her mistress.
Tears wetting her lashes, the slick surfaces conspiring to bruise her knees and shins, she continued scrambling upward, all the while assuring herself her pursuer would not traverse the boulders, it being too great a risk to dismount with Malcolm’s men soon to come. Or would they now they were no longer guided by Dubh’s barking?
Marguerite peered over her shoulder. Refusing to look beyond the rider who neared, there being nothing she could do for the hound, she shouted, “I am here, king’s men!”
She glimpsed indecision on the face of her pursuer who surely weighed whether completion of his task was worth risking his life. Then he bared his teeth, began to swing out of the saddle, and stilled. She also heard what made him search the hillside across which he had chased her. Though she could not see the horse pounding toward them, it came.
“Witch!” the man spat and dropped back in the saddle.
“King’s men, I am here!” Marguerite cried again.
As the Norman descended the hill at a pace that could unseat him, she saw her hound struggling up the incline. Its fur was too dark to show crimson, but it glistened. Dubh was in pain—and in the path of the one responsible. Would the Norman put finish to her?
A moment later, the horse slipped, and Marguerite wondered if God had smacked its rump. It did not go down, but if the rider had intended Dubh further harm, he decided against wasting what could be the defining moment between escape and capture.
“Marguerite!”
She snapped her chin around. Though Malcolm was too distant to look well upon, his size and voice identified him.
“Praise, Lord!” she exclaimed and began descending the boulders.
More than the pain of her flight, she felt the injuries of her ascent. She would be scraped and bruised, but far better that than what had been planned for her.
When she came off the last boulder, she turned toward Malcolm and knew from the blood he wore he had slain one or more of her pursuer’s companions. And saw he was not alone.
When Theriot swung off the rear of the saddle, the king commanded, “Remain with D’Argent, Sparrow,” and turned in the direction of her assailant.
Throat tight, she stared at the man who appeared to stare at her. Clouds remained center of his eyes, but she thought she saw green.
As hope moved through her, he asked, “Are you injured?”
She shook her head, then lowering her gaze over him, wondered the same of him. Blood was on one hand and stained his sleeve’s cuff, and there were sprays of crimson on the side of his tunic. Of further note were streaks of dirt and debris over his garments, evidencing he had not remained upright throughout his clash with a sighted opponent. And yet he was alive and well.
“Are you injured, Marguerite?” he repeated harshly.
Having shaken her head when first he asked, silently she rued, Still, he cannot see. “Not terribly, and it is of my own doing, but Dubh—”
“Where is she?”
Fearing the hound’s silence, she looked to where last she had seen her protector. Head up, Dubh watched from where she had lowered beside a tree.
As Marguerite started past Theriot, she said, “Not
far below. I do not know how badly she is hurt.”
He stretched out a hand. “Lead me to her.”
Though she wanted to protest for how steep this section, she took hold of him and, wishing the contact was no different from that of any other, asked, “How should we do this?”
“Side by side, my hand on your forearm so I can release you without taking you down should my feet go wrong. If you see something in my path, draw me away or give warning.”
The strain in his voice revealing it cost much to instruct her in how to direct him, her eyes threatened to overflow.
As if he saw her tears, he growled, “Do not pity me.”
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
“I try.”
Marguerite swallowed, moved his hand to her arm, and started forward. Despite the necessity of guiding him away from obstacles, they descended the hill at a good pace, and as they neared Dubh, the dog whimpered.
Theriot released Marguerite, dropped to his haunches, and moved his tucked hand toward Dubh’s snout. “What hurts, girl?”
Frantically, the dog licked him knuckles to wrist.
“Her left shoulder,” Marguerite said, and drawing in Dubh’s scent as she lowered beside Theriot, felt a tickle in her nose. “The damp there is not perspiration, and the haunch that side is moist as well.”
Fingers wide, he moved his hand between the dog’s ears, then began probing down the neck and over that shoulder.
Dubh yelped and bared her teeth.
Cautiously, Theriot reached his other hand forward and set it atop her head. “I know it hurts, but we shall make it right.”
The hound lowered quivering lips over sharp teeth.
“I do not think the blade went deep,” Theriot said, stroking Dubh’s head with one hand and exploring her bloodied fur with the other.
When he neared her haunch, she protested again, but did not show her teeth.
“Less blood here. Likely a single swipe of the sword cut her shoulder, skipped over her ribs, and caught her leg.” He searched the opposite side. “Naught here. Providing infection does not set in, soon she will return to your side.”
