by E. D. Walker
Yes, Aliénor would have to arrange something for poor Violette, and those plans would not include marriage. Not yet. Of course, in the meantime we might all be killed. Aliénor pinched her eyes closed, her shoulders bowing with the weight of fear and uncertainty. What good was there in saying, ‘I shall do such and such a thing if we ever make it back to civilization’?
If, if, if. Aliénor slapped the cork into her canteen with more force than necessary and tied the jug back on her horse’s pack. What use planning anything with such a large if looming over her head?
“Are you all right, Princess?”
The rich baritone voice made her chest flutter with emotion. She didn’t trust herself right now with him, with this wild tearing frustration bursting inside her.
She heard his foot scrape against the turf and pebbles beside her, as if he’d made a move closer to her. Aliénor jerked her shoulder up so she would not have to see his face. “I’m all right, King Thomas. Are we setting out again?”
“Yes.” His voice was tight, uncertain. “Do—do you need assistance to mount up?”
It’s not you. She wanted to tell him. You’ve done nothing. She went to her horse as the unspoken words burned on her tongue. As she swung into the saddle and settled her weight down, she voiced a small groan. Her chafed skin and bruised bottom protested, and every muscle in her body ached.
The king came to her horse’s side and looked up at her. His skin was red from the sun and peeling a little on his forehead and cheeks. The laugh lines around his eyes were deep, and a dark brown beard with gray patches shadowed his cheeks. His dark hair looked temptingly soft.
“I’m all right, King Thomas. Truly.”
He ran his gaze all over her face, as if he meant to memorize each line of bone, each freckle. He opened his mouth to say something, and she caught her breath.
“My king, all is ready,” Llewellyn called out from the front.
Thomas puffed out a small laugh and lowered his face. “All right.” When he looked up at her again, a wicked gleam of humor had animated his face. All at once, he transformed from a dirty vagabond to a man who took her breath away. “What an old fool I am.” He breathed the words out softly, wryly. No one farther away than Aliénor would have heard him.
She ran her tongue over her lips to try to bring some moisture back. “I am barely twenty, my king. What’s my excuse?” Their gazes met, the feelings between them like kindling, like a spark catching on dry brush. An aching, an urgent need. “Are you on guard duty tonight, King Thomas?”
His lips flattened, and he lowered his eyelids, veiling his thoughts from her. “Do not seek me out, Princess. It is folly.”
“I asked only if you take a watch again tonight.” She tilted her chin in the most regal manner she could manage, staring down her nose at him.
“I will. And shall do every night until I have seen us all safe out of this mess.”
“My king?” Llewellyn called again from the front, clearly worried something was wrong. All eyes were on Aliénor and Thomas now.
“Do not come, Princess Aliénor,” Thomas gritted out from between his teeth, and he stomped to the front of the column to get them all moving again.
Aliénor watched the broad line of his shoulders as he retreated from her. I did not listen to my late husband, and I do not heed the advice of my own ladies. What makes you think I will let a foreign king order me about, Thomas of Lyond?
***
Even if Aliénor or Thomas had managed to work themselves up to try some more daring indiscretion, they each found their movements impeded. Aliénor, despite her best intentions, was asleep that night almost as soon as her body hit her bedroll. Still, Thomas found when he was awoken for his watch that he would not have to face the long night alone, after all.
Llewellyn grinned at his king’s approach, the magician’s teeth a white gleam in the moonlight. “With that blood witch about, Your Highness, I thought it better if no man stood his watch alone.”
Such worries had not troubled Llewellyn last night. Still, Thomas held his tongue and settled in beside the magician. He drew his cloak more tightly about his own shoulders. “An excellent precaution.”
“I promised long ago that I would guard your life, my king.”
“I know, old friend. I know.” Thomas hugged his cloak tighter.
Llewellyn shifted, and a small pebble went tumbling to the ground, overloud in the darkness. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we should—”
A branch cracked in the quiet night, and the both of them tensed. Thomas flung back his cloak and reached for his sword. Llewellyn shifted his weight to balance on the balls of his feet. Neither of them spoke. They hardly breathed as they waited together in tense anticipation.
***
Godric’s head throbbed and pounded as the blood witch’s voice reverberated inside his skull, like an echo chamber that would never be silenced: Bring me the princess.
He jogged through the dark. She’d kissed her finger, then touched each of his eyelids, and now he saw in the dark as easily as if it were high noon. His muscles shook with quivering tension as he moved, and tears leaked out of his eyes that he did not—could not—stop to brush away. Bring me the princess.
The blood witch had given him one of the princess’s sun veils, a light, gauzy thing. She’d wrapped the fabric around his bicep in mockery of a lady’s tournament favor. The witch had woven her magic in with the warp and weft of the cloth, and the tracking spell pulsed now like a living thing, tugging him along like a dog on a leash. Leading him toward their camp, toward the girl. Bring me the princess.
Quiet voices sounded up ahead and he hurried onward, wanting this errand over with. The witch had promised he could sleep once he brought her back the Jerdic girl. He was not used to a spell-caster who spent her magic so freely. Perhaps Mistress Helen was more powerful than even Master Llewellyn, or perhaps she was simply more desperate. The witch certainly looked as exhausted as Godric felt, with great dark circles under her eyes and lines around her mouth. Perhaps he could use her fatigue later to get away from the woman.
Bring me the princess. Bring me the princess. Bring me the princess.
He didn’t even care anymore whether the witch meant to kill him or not. He only wanted a release from the terrible grip of her control, the endless cry of her voice in his mind. Bring me the princess.
He took an incautious step and a branch cracked beneath his foot. The voices in camp quieted, and he waited a long while, his hands fisted against his knees as he squatted and examined the lay of the camp.
The king and Llewellyn stood guard, but the princess and her ladies were on the opposite end of the small circle from them. Risky, risky…
BRING ME THE PRINCESS.
Godric lifted a small stone and drew back his arm, hurling it far away. The rock crashed into the brush on the other side of the camp. The king and Llewellyn whirled, trying to see what had made the noise. King Thomas rose to his feet, sword drawn and ready.
Bring me the princess.
Godric scurried forward to where the Jerdic princess slumbered among her blankets. She remained peacefully oblivious, snoring softly as he loomed over her.
Forgive me, my king. Godric grabbed for the woman.
Chapter Fourteen
Aliénor startled awake as a cold, clammy hand settled over her mouth. She instinctively shrieked and thrashed, clawing for her attacker’s face. Her fingernails raked deep into his flesh, but he seemed oblivious as he grasped her wrist in a bruising grip and hauled her to her feet.
Violette stirred beside her. “My lady—”
The man jerked violently, lashing out in some way, and Violette fell back with a cry, landing atop Noémi, knocking the older woman backward.
Aliénor pawed at the hand over her mouth and twisted and wrenched her torso, trying to break free. The man banded an arm like iron around her ribs and dragged her against his chest. Her breath left her on a small, pained gasp into his hand. The world swooped
around her as he dragged her away from her tumble of blankets.
“Help…” Violette coughed the word out, her voice little better than a croak. “Help.”
“Princess?” The king’s voice.
Light flared behind them. A fire? No, it was blue. A bright ball of light shot into the sky like a falling star in reverse. Llewellyn.
Her attacker moved at a run toward the tree line, fast, unhesitating. As she watched the light fall, the spell illuminated the ground all around the camp. From a distance, she watched as the knights hurried to awaken and strap on their gear. Aliénor realized with a sinking heart she was already too far away. Her kidnapper had carried her into the shelter of the trees, where Llewellyn’s blue light did not touch them.
Aliénor rocked her shoulders, fighting, but she felt light-headed now, her air coming in small fits and starts, while her attacker covered her mouth and crushed her lungs in his cruel hold. The rest of the camp was stirring, but their forms were indistinct in the faint moonlight.
“Split up!” King Thomas called, his voice distant. “Find the princess.”
She and her kidnapper crashed deeper into the trees, but at the first smallish clearing, he set her down at last. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose, ready to scream the forest down once he removed his hand. Unfortunately, he lifted his hand only to shove a foul and metallic-tasting rag between her lips. He held her head in place and poked hard until the fabric was so far down her mouth she nearly gagged.
Aliénor’s eyes watered, and she worked her tongue, trying to spit the fabric out. He gripped both her wrists in one of his, and twisted something tight round both her hands so the bones mashed together. A rope or cord. Rough. Aliénor thrashed, trying at least to make it hard for him to tie her.
With a small, impatient grunt, he sat back from her. The wind whistled, and the next thing Aliénor knew, her cheek was stinging from the force of a brutal slap. Her face throbbed so badly it took her breath away.
“I’m sorry, my lady.”
Aliénor flinched, her body locking up with a chill terror. Godric. Her head still rang from the blow he’d dealt her, but she found some reserve within herself and lurched away from him, furiously kicking out with her feet. No, no, no—where Godric was, his new mistress the blood witch was surely nearby. Nonono—
He hauled her back, half dragging her across the ground. He slapped her again, and her head went fuzzy as he flung her weight about, then tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
Aliénor’s stomach swooped, her throat burning, but she took deep breaths in through her nose and pinched her watering eyes tightly closed. She could not be sick with the gag in her mouth. Will not. Don’t.
Godric moved with swift, unfaltering steps through the night, though she could barely see a foot in front of her own face. Still, her weight slowed him down, and she did not make an easy burden for him. She wriggled and squirmed, and knocked at his belly with her knees, trying to impede him any way she could.
Finally, when that didn’t seem enough, she clawed with her bound hands at the gag he’d shoved into her mouth. She spat as the fabric came free and drew a long, deep breath. “Help!”
“Aliénor? Princess?” The king’s voice. Close by.
Her heart soared with hope. “Here,” she squawked out. Using her bound fists, she pushed up against Godric’s back to make her voice louder. “Here. Thomas!”
Godric swore and firmed up his hold on her body by wrapping his arms around her legs. He broke into a run, heedless of noise as the brush crunched and broke around him.
An impact. A grunt. Something slammed into them from the side, toppling Godric over. Thomas.
They all three tumbled together in a tangle of limbs. Godric’s elbow banged into her ribs and she keened at the jolt of fire in her side. The king clawed for her arms, and she kicked out, trying to twist toward him, her nerves vibrating, charged with fear and anger.
She scrambled to her feet, but Godric caught her ankle and tugged. She lost her balance and went face-first into the dirt and bracken on the forest floor. Spitting leaves, she kicked behind and felt his head snap back. Thomas shoved Godric away from her, and the two men locked arms, jostling above her.
Aliénor elbow-crawled to a safe distance and worked at the knots on her wrists. The rope burned and cut at her skin, refusing to loosen.
“Fight the magic, Godric. Damn you,” Thomas gasped out. “You are stronger than some evil witch.”
“I’m sorry, my king. I’m sorry.”
As she heard the sound of Godric drawing his sword, her heart froze. Steel glinted briefly in the moonlight as Godric slashed at his king’s belly. Thomas blocked the blow with his own blade, and the swords clanged loudly in the night.
Nerves jangling like discordant bells, Aliénor pawed at the ground with her still-tied hands and came up with a heavy rock. She lurched to her feet and ran at the bespelled knight before he could swing again. She brought the rock down hard against the back of his head. He crashed to the ground, still slightly awake but groaning.
Thomas was by her side at once, clawing at the knots of rope on her wrists. The scratchy loops fell away, and Thomas whirled with the rope toward Godric. He lashed the burly knight’s hands together while the other man was still stunned. With a savage sort of satisfaction, Aliénor crawled forward and shoved the gag Godric had used on her deep into the knight’s mouth.
Thomas caught at her hand, and she swallowed a gasp as his fingers brushed over the raw, bleeding skin of her wrists. She curled her fingers around his hand and gripped him brutally tight. “Where are the others?”
“Looking for you.”
“What do we do with Sir Godric?”
“He’s still bespelled.” Thomas combed his fingers through his hair, tension radiating off him.
Aliénor chafed at her chill arms, her stomach roiling. She didn’t want Sir Godric anywhere near her, and yet… “If we leave him, the witch will find him again. If we take him with us, her spell will wear off, won’t it?”
“If we take him, he might attack you again. Overpower me.” Thomas snorted. “He is quite a bit younger than I, and one of my best knights.” He shifted from foot to foot, still with that same frantic jitter about him. At last he shook his head. “I can’t do it.” Thomas’s voice cracked on the end. “I won’t risk him hurting you again. I’ll see you to safety. That is my first duty. After that I’ll return for Godric.”
What about your safety? Aliénor bit her lip. Men never worried over such things, she found. They leave that burden of worry for us to take care of.
Thomas was still watching Godric as his knight moaned half-conscious on the ground. “Hopefully, he’ll still be here when I return.”
“It will be all right.” She tugged on his hand, and with reluctance Thomas let himself be pulled away from Sir Godric’s prone form.
“Another man lost.” He shook his head.
“You must not blame yourself. You will get him help when you can.”
Thomas tossed her a wan smile and, still gripping her hand, moved in front of her to clear their path through the woods. They hurried through the trees, but not with the headlong rush of Godric’s flight. Clouds had blown across the moon, and it was bitterly dark now. Cold. They had to be careful to feel and pick their way through the trees lest one of them take a bad fall.
Aliénor had slept in her clothes, but Godric had not thought to grab her good heavy cloak when he’d snatched her. Distracted, tired, bruised, she stumbled over a rock and went down hard on her hands and knees.
“We’ll stop and wait for better light.” Thomas settled onto the ground beside her, and the two of them pressed their backs up against the nearest tree. He reached over and hauled a screen of broken branches around them. She hoped that would be enough if Godric managed to slip his bonds and come looking for them. Or if the witch were prowling these woods too.
Thomas untied his cloak and draped it around the both of them like a blanket. A
liénor slid close to him, pressing her side tight against his, pillowing her head on his heart. “To stay warm,” she murmured. “We shall both freeze without the other, surely.”
“Surely.” His voice was a trifle dry, but warm with amusement. His arm settled around her shoulders to draw her even closer. “The others will find us soon.”
Aliénor nodded against his shoulder, then covered a yawn with her hand. He was so warm, and she was so tired and sore, frightened. She burrowed under Thomas’s cloak, the smell of him wrapped around her comfortingly close as his arm. Aliénor slept.
***
Thomas was proven wrong. For though he watched and waited the whole night through, none of the others found them. When dawn broke, he nudged Aliénor awake. “It is light enough now that I think we must look for them.”
She rubbed sleep from her eyes and pushed disheveled red-gold hair back from her face. An ugly bruise darkened the skin of one cheek, and deep red lines of blood and bruises circled her wrists where the rope had dug in. Something clenched in his gut, a tight burst of anger and fear that he immediately locked down. He drew the cloak off himself and wrapped it around her shoulders. His knuckles brushed the bottom of her chin as he fastened the clasp. She caught his wrists with her small, soft hands, and his gaze darted up to hers in surprise.
Her brown eyes were warm, and still soft with sleep. “Thank you, King Thomas.”
He swallowed, and his fingers twitched before he jerked his hands away. They had each been foolish before on this road. He could not afford to be foolish now, when they were alone together. He pushed to his feet, creaking and moaning at the stiffness in his limbs. He offered his hand down to help Princess Aliénor stand, but then he dropped her fingers almost at once. Every moment with her was temptation. Best not to magnify it with touch.
