by Tamara Leigh
“They will require no incentive, Your Grace.”
“Then go. And keep my sparrow safe.”
Theriot shifted his regard to the shore and saw the forces arrayed there, the offensive in front of the defensive. Certain the figures at the fore and center were his family, he said, “Hold tight, Marguerite.”
“Stay, Dubh!” Malcolm commanded, doubtless intending to make use of the hound who knew their attackers’ scent from when last they trespassed.
Theriot urged his horse forward, and as soon as he was beyond the king, reined hard right and gave Grendel his heels. He did not know how Guarin and the others would interpret his sudden flight, but he was coming to them as whole as possible, and they would do naught to endanger him nor this woman.
Moments later, shouts sounded ahead and behind. Then just as Theriot heard great movement of those from whom he distanced himself, he saw movement of those he rode upon and the princesses’ guard draw nearer their charges. Though he caught no sound of loosed arrows, he believed Marguerite’s kin flew them and, regardless of whether they landed well, would fly more.
Was it of benefit he had no cause to heed the impulse to look behind and discover if the first arrows struck one or more targets? No sooner did he wonder that than he jerked with an impact just off center of his back.
It was like being struck hard with the sharp end of a pole that, blessedly, pierced little skin and no muscle nor bone—above all, no possibility of going through him into Marguerite. Likely, the one who flew it did not know his target wore chain mail. But had Theriot turned to the side to look around, Marguerite would have made a better mark.
“Theriot!” she exclaimed.
“Hold tight, Marguerite! My mail protects better than my tunic. ’Tis but a scratch.”
Moments later, she said, “Guarin, Dougray, Maël, and Eberhard come.”
“Their men?”
“Half. The others move nearer the princesses’ guard.”
To add to their protection, Theriot thought since they must realize this treachery was not of Malcolm.
“They are nearly upon us,” Marguerite said.
As he could hear better than see.
She leaned to the side. “And Malcolm and his men go to the wood. It appears none are injured.”
Then likely no more arrows, the only flight that of her kin running ahead of the king’s vengeance.
Slowing Grendel, Theriot called, “Those were Norman arrows—a private vendetta against King Malcolm and Lady Marguerite.”
Then his kin were dragging on their reins.
“Praise, it is good to see you!” Dougray said and came alongside and gripped his brother’s arm. Then eyes that searched Theriot’s were as felt as they should be seen. And not only Dougray’s but those of his eldest brother and cousin.
“What Normans are they?” Guarin demanded.
“My uncle, Gerald,” Marguerite answered, “my cousin, Pepin, and possibly others.”
“Likely only those two,” Maël said.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“That must wait,” Theriot said and shifted his gaze from one figure to the other. “Be assured all is well with Malcolm and me. Now to ensure all is well between him and you, we must aid in ending this assault.”
“We?” Dougray said. “But you—”
“I believed in you,” Theriot said. “My injury is different from yours but I am not helpless.” He turned his face to his nephew whose figure was slight compared to the three warriors. “Take Lady Marguerite onto your horse, Eberhard. We must ride.”
Though Theriot felt her reluctance to be parted from him, she loosed her hold and moved onto the youth’s horse.
After Guarin commanded the half of his men who accompanied him forward to return to the others, he said, “Lady Marguerite, you will speak for your king and me in assuring the princesses’ guard that the ill between us is resolved and we give aid in bringing down those who loosed arrows.”
“I will,” she said, and Theriot knew she wished to speak something to him, but he turned aside.
“Take the lead, Dougray!” Guarin commanded the one whose ability to track was most exceptional.
Theriot disliked bringing up the rear, allowing those ahead to serve as shields and forge for him an unobstructed path through the wood, it once more making him feel the little brother too young to do for himself. But there was good in it, furthering his determination to adapt to his loss of vision should it not adequately improve. If when all that could be done was done and still he fell short of the warrior he had been, only then would he adjust his expectations of an altered life, perhaps a lonely life, but still…life.
“We are dead men.”
We, Pepin mulled. Not I—we.
Though his own thoughts had gone that way and not for the first time, to hear it spoken and not be told to run and assured Gerald would draw them away from his son…
The same as his sire, Pepin had wanted to avenge his losses, and the possibility of death was acceptable to see Malcolm and Marguerite suffer, but three of the four arrows flown before he and his sire were forced to gain their saddles lacked the range needed to reach Malcolm and Edgar. And the fourth…
A perfect draw. A perfect release. A perfect landing made more perfect had the blind D’Argent not worn mail that prevented the arrow from piercing both riders.
“Naught to show for it,” his sire said. “It feels God is their side, condoning what was done us as if they are the ones wronged.”
His tone, sounding less of bitterness than wonder, brought Pepin’s head around. Peering at Gerald amid the shadows of this dense wood bordering a ravine whose sides were mostly sheer rock, he waited. And heard the silence of the Scotsman bound over the back of his horse. Was it that of senselessness or listening?
“Do you think them more wronged than us?” his sire asked as Pepin considered once more bringing his dagger’s hilt down on their hostage’s head. “Or is God merely cruel, our lives but things sacrificed to entertain Himself ahead of protecting His children?”
Possible, Pepin thought. After all, little consideration did Gerald show his son. And much that tempted Pepin to abandon him to increase his own chance of survival.
“What think you, my boy?”
Pepin breathed deep. “Only the Lord knows.”
After a time, Gerald said, “We are not dead men. I am.” He set a hand on his son’s arm. “As soon as Malcolm and his men pass out of sight, I will follow, and you will go opposite, neither thinking nor looking back.”
Resentment born of desperation beginning to loosen the knots into which it tied him, Pepin exclaimed, “Father—”
“Non! My mother warned that my sire led their sons wrong, and as I would not accept it for fear of disappointing and angering him, I have led you wrong, pulling you down the ever-forking road that shall prove my end as it proved his. Though I have too little warning to prepare for death—no confession, no absolution—I will not deny you that. Honor my wishes and go from me, being done with this vengeance as I should have been long ago.”
“Long ago?”
Momentarily, he closed his eyes. “Had I prevented your grandfather from slaying Marguerite’s escort, heeding what my mother taught me, none would have died and still we would have our home. Oui, an angry old man in our midst, but when was he not angry?” He sighed. “You will go?”
Pepin swallowed hard. “You believe I could turn my back on you, knowing they will kill you?”
“Turn your back on me or not, I die this day, but be assured I will give none the satisfaction of putting me in the grave as done my father.”
“Then—?”
“Do not ask.” He gripped Pepin’s arm. “Do as I say so you not die without warning.”
The longing to agree caused bile to rise.
“Son?”
Pepin gulped, nodded.
“And no vengeance. It ends here, else you could lose your next wife not to childbirth but more of this.”
If he wed again, and what chance of that now he was reduced to the life of a mercenary? “I understand, Sire.”
“Not truly, but if you have children, one day you may—if you lead them better than you were led.”
Only possible if any children born to him survived since the Lord seemed intent on extinguishing his line—no children born to the sickly Claude who had no reason to make a family, no children who survived the birthings that took Pepin’s wife the second time she delivered a babe, and only Marguerite surviving her mother’s birthings.
“It is decided, Pepin. Now pass me the—” Gerald’s teeth snapped, then between them he said, “Malcolm comes. Pass me the Scotsman’s reins, then thinking and looking ahead—never again behind—go.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Dubh’s barking indicated the direction the D’Argents should go to overtake the King of Scots and those hunted. And yet…
“Halt!” Theriot shouted, so abruptly reining in the dust of the narrow road billowed, stinging eyes and wending nostrils.
His kin came around, and when he revealed he sensed those pursued were nearer than Malcolm and his men, as ever they had considered his instincts, they considered them now—as though naught had changed.
Since this was not the time to indulge the D’Argent returned to them less than whole, was it habit? Or did they still have faith in his ability to sense things beyond their reach?
Amid hesitation, likely they also questioned it, but Dougray said, “Point the way.”
When Theriot altered their southwestern course in favor of a southeastern one that took them into a dense wood, the others did not question him in any way perceptible.
Though perhaps they should, doubt squeezed in as once more he urged Grendel to follow those ahead.
They should not, he silently countered, and much proof he had of that now a prayer often sent heavenward was answered as longed for—full restoration of his unnatural sense so in the event his sight was not entirely healed, he would have that to aid in moving through the world when he departed Scotland.
His extra sense weaving itself through the others, stitching all together and beautifully finishing their edges, reached out on all sides of him. However, it was not as familiar as once it had been. As if compensation for what was lost, it felt of greater strength.
Shortly, Dougray reined in and slowly moved his mount around the area. “It is as Theriot sensed,” he said. “Three horses were here. When they departed, two went southwest in the same direction as King Malcolm, one southeast.”
“Then we follow the latter,” Guarin said. “Ride!”
When they came out of the wood, before them was an expanse of gently rolling hills with few trees, doubtless making it easy for those of good sight to see any who fled. Though Dubh could still be heard, only just.
“There—far right returning to the wood!” Dougray shouted. “He knows we follow.”
No matter how Theriot strained to see past his clouds, the rider was too distant to pick him from the landscape. Thus, all he could do was follow his kin and match their pace.
“We have him!” Maël called. “If he reaches the wood, he will have too little time to draw it around him.”
Shortly, Guarin announced their prey accepted the hopelessness of his flight. “He has his bow to hand and comes around—coifs up, spread out!”
Theriot dragged his mail hood over his head, and as they fanned out to put distance between themselves, used the figure of Dougray and his mount ahead to guide his flight.
Grendel surely sensed danger, but the steed did not falter, even when Dougray warned an arrow was loosed and Theriot heard it pass between him and his brother.
“He nocks again!” Maël warned.
“And flies!” Dougray shouted.
There was nothing straight about their ride, but the one who released the arrow either anticipated well their swiftly meandering approach, else luck landed it true, the impact knocking Guarin out of the saddle.
Certain he of little sight was of greatest use to his eldest brother, Theriot shouted, “I have him!” and jerked his reins left to circle back.
The other two remained true to their training that taught one injured or dead could fast become many when fear and compassion moved warriors to abandon their objective. And the objective here was to keep Marguerite’s kin from doing worse than already they had done.
When the figure of Guarin quickly regained his feet, Theriot rasped, “Merciful God!”
“My shoulder shall be bruised and sore like your back, but no blood drawn,” Guarin said when his brother came alongside. “Blessed chain mail.”
Gripping Grendel harder with his thighs, Theriot reached to aid him in mounting behind. Then wasting no moment on retrieving Guarin’s horse, he spurred toward those ahead.
“What do you see?” Theriot called over his shoulder.
“That we are not needed. The miscreant flees again, and I believe Maël intends to knock him off his horse.”
Still Theriot urged Grendel to swiftly deliver them to the others, and they were near when Guarin once more reported what Theriot could make little sense of. “Maël has dismounted and taken the knave to ground. Go right so we not trample him.”
Theriot did as told, and as he neared Dougray who also reined in, saw Maël sweep his blade toward the man at his feet.
It should be my blade, Theriot thought. I should be the one to take him to ground for the ill he sought to do Marguerite and me.
“Breathe too deeply, Pepin, and I shall consider it a request to die at my hands rather than King Malcolm’s,” Maël said. “Of course, if he is as barbaric as told, you may prefer I do the deed.”
Guarin dismounted and strode to Maël. “A coward’s arrow sought the back of my brother, a fleeing man’s arrow sought my heart. Though it is our due to give answer to these offenses, I believe my cousin is right. Better Malcolm Canmore decide your fate.”
“My slaughter,” spat the Norman of diluted accent, “and that of my sire.”
“The cost of treachery,” Guarin said, then commanded, “Divest him of his weapons, bind him, and get him astride.”
As Dougray swung out of the saddle to aid Maël, Guarin strode to Theriot. “Well done, Brother. As ever, you know what we cannot. Be assured, we shall exploit that God-gifted sense to see you made as right as possible.”
As possible, Theriot thought, though with little bitterness and much gratitude his brother did not give false hope of returning him to the warrior he had been.
Guarin gripped his arm. “First, in between, and in the end, Theriot.”
It was of comfort, but of less comfort than expected was that soon he would depart Scotland.
As is best, he reminded himself. Cruel now, kind later, for both Marguerite and me.
The return journey with their captive was nearly as swift as their departure, and it surprised when once more Dubh was heard, her barks sounding from the same direction as when Theriot’s instincts caused the D’Argents to veer away. Surely by now Malcolm and his men ought to have captured or slain their prey and started back.
After passing through the wood and returning to the dirt road, they followed the hound’s din to a clearing.
Dougray riding at Theriot’s side told that Malcolm and his men sat their saddles a hundred feet distant from Pepin’s sire who stood at the edge of a ravine. “The miscreant has a Scotsman on his knees before him, a dagger at his throat.”
“The hostage?” Theriot asked.
“Doubtless, the knaves were watching when we overwhelmed those who rode to escort the princesses from the dock and bound them in the wood. They took the leader.”
The man Theriot no longer first thought of as the one who blinded him. “He is Hendrie.”
No sooner said than Marguerite’s uncle shouted above Dubh’s barks, “This is not our bargain, Malcolm! You agreed my son would go free. Do you not release him, I will cut this dirty Scot’s throat!”
“Hol
d, Gerald!” the king commanded. “The D’Argents and their prisoner will come to my side—no nearer—and we shall discuss these altered circumstances.”
“He goes free else—!”
“If you draw one drop of my man’s blood, I shall cut your whelp’s throat—then yours.”
That silenced him.
“We are summoned forth,” Dougray informed Theriot.
As was Dubh who ceased barking when the king called her to his side.
Moments later, amid the curses of Pepin muffled by the cloth in his mouth, the D’Argents halted near Malcolm. From the tension, Theriot knew that just as the king’s men were prepared to draw blood, so were the D’Argents if either side moved as they ought not.
“Baron Wulfrith, you are responsible for my man falling into the hands of your fellow Norman,” the King of Scots said with just enough control his voice did not carry to the ravine. “If not for the attempt to put an arrow in your brother’s back, I might think you conspire with them. Or perhaps you did conspire, unaware a personal vendetta would see them turn on you.”
“King Malcolm, when we captured your warriors, it was with the intention of trading the princess and her entourage for my brother—naught else, though our king would see it as betrayal we sought our own end rather than prevent your wedding. We did not know we were observed by those who are fellow Normans only for being born in the country of our birth, having believed the men who posed as swords for hire to negotiate this foreign land had departed. I apologize that what we did to gain my brother’s release allowed them to take one of your men hostage. But now we deliver his son to do with as you like.”
“What I would like is to bleed him alongside his sire. Unfortunately, your capture of Pepin changes naught. It but prolongs the wait.”
“The wait?”
“To preserve my man’s life, not only did I give my word I will not pursue Gerald’s son, but I was required to give proof by ensuring Pepin an hour’s lead. That hour we were counting down when you arrived, and now we must begin anew. Accursed D’Argents! Did I not know your family’s reputation and had not Sir Theriot earned my trust, this day would not end well for you.”
