"One such as you should not claim a relationship with that little slut," he said, speaking in his horrible French. "Come, Lady Ashby. Let me keep you safe from harm until your husband pays your ransom."
Nicola stared at him, too stunned by the fact he'd seen through her disguise to recognize his threat of kidnap. "My pardon," she said gruffly in English, "I do not speak your language."
"Now, now," he replied, still insisting on using her native tongue. "Drop your ridiculous pretense. So comely a lass as you shouldn't try to hide as a man. Come quietly and you'll not be hurt."
Nicola's eyes narrowed as rage burned again within her belly. This commoner thought to take from her the freedom she had worked so hard to gain. Noblemen, churchmen, even a commoner, they all thought they could tell her what to do simply because they were men and she was not.
"Peasant," she snarled in French, "you overstep yourself if you think you can keep me where Lord Graistan could not." She snatched her dagger from her belt and held it at the ready before her. "You'll give me my friend and let us pass unharmed, or I'll carve you like a goose."
"Ladies should not play with knives," Alan warned, his tone patronizing. He reached for her dagger and snatched back a bloody hand. "Damn you, you've sliced my palm clean through," he cried, yet too surprised by her attack to feel pain. "Cease this foolishness and give me that knife." He clumsily threw himself at her.
Nicola laughed in scorn. Did he think she'd stand still whilst he took her down? With a leg, she swept his feet out from beneath him. As he fell she brought the hilt of her dagger down on the back of his unprotected head. It met his skull with a satisfying thunk. He dropped face first into the mud.
With a foot braced on his back, Nicola threw aside her dagger and snatched his blade from his scabbard. The feel of his sword in her hands gave her a wondrous rush of confidence. She stepped back and prodded him with his own blade. "Get up peasant, and take me to Tilda."
He came to his knees, beard full of mud, his eyes slightly glazed. "Well, do not simply watch her, you fools!" he shouted in English, spewing muck from his mouth. "We must subdue her, but be you gentle. If her bones are broken, the noblemen will kill us instead of paying for her."
Nicola drew a sharp breath as the road was suddenly alive with shouting, ragged men. Some wore bits of leather armor, others had cloth hauberks well stuffed to deflect blows. All of them had weapons: daggers, rusted swords, or sharpened staves. Six, there were, not counting Alan, and so filthy that Nicola could smell them as they drew nearer to her. The biggest one held a bruised and disheveled Tilda by the arm.
"Tilda!" Nicola cried out in concern.
Her friend did not even glance at her, instead the girl turned toward Alan. "Listen to what I say," she commanded. "Lord Ocslade will pay you not only for her, but for me, as well."
"Who is this Ocslade?" Alan the thief master asked, cradling his injured hand against his body. "I thought Graistan's brother was to marry her."
"Lord Ocslade is the one who came this morn to halt the wedding." Tilda's voice held a trace of desperation. "He is closer and easier to approach than Graistan, but you cannot reach him without me, for only I know where he waits."
"Waits?" Nicola cried in disbelief. How could Hugh know anything of their plans, when they'd been made only this morn?
Tilda shot her a bleak glance. Nicola’s heart broke. In her friend’s face she saw that her escape had been by Hugh's design. If not for this interruption, de Ocslade would have had the advantage of surprise, rendering Nicola helpless against him.
"Alan, you must listen," the girl insisted again, struggling against her captor's hold. "Lord Ocslade will pay whatever sum you ask for Lady Ashby. Let me fetch him here for you."
Alan only sneered at her. "Why little whore, you were hot enough to share my bed only moments ago. Do I now sense you wish to escape the lovely winter we have planned for you? I have a better idea. Why do you not stay here, whilst I find this nobleman of yours? Once I have his ear, I will ask if he truly wishes to buy both a bride and a whore."
"Nay," Tilda shouted, and swung helplessly at the heavy man who held her.
"Stay still now," her captor said, his words as ponderous as he. He curled his fist and seemed to only tap Tilda's jaw. The girl reeled and dropped quietly into the bracken.
Rage overtook Nicola as Tilda fell. No matter what the girl had done Tilda and her kin were the closest thing to family Nicola had left. "Nay, I'll not let you have her to abuse!"
Alan signaled casually to his men. "Take that blade from her."
As they closed around her, Nicola found her first target in an old man with a toothless mouth and skin like leather. Protected by only a tattered cloth vest and armed with a sharpened stake, he cackled like a hen with each tottering step. She lunged for him, her blade coming upward beneath his staff as it aimed for the rent in his vest. Iron bit through the opening, crushing ribs and tearing deeply into softer flesh. He grimaced in pain as she kicked him off her blade only to gag on death’s rapid approach as he fell.
Her stained sword held before her in the defensive stance she’d learned at her father’s side, Nicola shifted backward until she had all the men within her view. Only then did she glance at her gloved hands; they were spattered with the old man's blood. Deep within her there grew a terrible sickness.
In the space of only three breaths, she had ended a life. For all the times she'd threatened to do so, she never dreamed it would feel like this. Nicola slaughtered her cowardly reaction. What was wrong with her? These men meant to take at least her freedom from her, if not her life.
"Who else wants a taste of what that man ate?" she growled, manufacturing rage to protect her from her woman's heart.
From the corner of her eye Nicola saw Tilda struggle to her feet. Relief washed over her. Surely, if the girl took up the old man's staff, the two of them together could defeat these scummy few. When the threat against them was finished, she and Tilda could talk. No matter what had been done, they could resolve it between them.
"What are you waiting for, you idiots?" Alan screamed, his face red with rage, as he stood behind them. "Take her. She cannot kill you all."
"Take her yourself," one of his men snarled. "We did not expect her to be dangerous."
Alan gnashed his teeth. "I cannot! She's damaged my sword hand."
"Come try my blade, you reeking bits of ox dung," Nicola goaded in rising confidence as she waited for Tilda to join her. "Aye, come for me with your ancient blades and your wooden sticks. I'll give you a taste of your master's better steel." She lunged at the nearest one. As he whirled away, Nicola caught a glimpse of Tilda. The girl led Alan's nag out of hiding.
Nicola blinked in disbelief as Tilda clambered into its saddle, then set the sorry beast into a trot without a backward look. Abandonment was far worse than betrayal. Swinging wildly in sudden pain, Nicola landed a chance blow, crushing a slender man's shoulder, half-tearing his arm from his body. He rebounded off her blade with no future save the grave.
The shock of Tilda's deed woke that terrible emptiness in Nicola. She panted as she fought it. There was no controlling herself when this state came upon her.
Too late. All at once, she stood amid an eerie bubble of calm. She watched in detached interest as Alan turned and caught sight of the escaping Tilda.
"That damn bitch stole my horse! Cowards all," he bellowed at his men, "this is but a woman before you. Take her, then run fetch our whore. Dickon, show these curs how a true man deals with a woman."
At Alan's command, the heavy man who had battered Tilda raised his rusty weapon and started toward her. The only sensation Nicola knew was the tightening of her face as she grimaced. Nothing, not even fear, lived within her.
Dickon hesitated, staring at her, his weapon sagging in his hands.
"I like this not at all," a frail lad sniveled. It’s not right that a woman act this way. Look at her, 'tis like she has no soul. She's some sort of a witch. Let her go, Alan, or she
'll put a curse on us all."
"I am not afraid of her," mumbled Dickon, then as if spurred to it by the boy’s fear, he again trundled toward her, sword raised high to strike. The wind sent his smell before him. Years of training meant Nicola's body needed no input from her thoughts to respond to his attack. Her blade came up instinctively to block his blow. Steel grated harshly as iron met iron, then she snapped her blade free and pivoted lithely away, circling to bury his sword deep into his huge middle.
He cried out and fell toward her as she wrenched on her hilt to free her weapon. It was well and truly stuck in him. Fearing she’d be be trapped beneath him if he fell on her, Nicola released her sword and stumbled back from him, empty-handed.
"Take her now!" Alan shouted in triumph.
The remaining three fell on her as one, trying to drag her down beneath them. Locked in her cold, empty state, she could not tolerate their touch. She kicked and punched. The frail boy screamed and rolled away, his nose spouting blood. As he sobbed, the other two managed to pin her to the road by lying upon her arms.
"Vicious bitch," Alan snarled, and kicked her in the ribs. Nicola curled away to protect herself from another blow. "You've killed half my men, left me injured, and made me lose my horse and our whore. Perhaps I should replace her with you." He leered viciously at her.
"Me after you, Alan," said one, placing his foul lips on her cheek. "I care not for what she looks like or that I follow another man. You'll yet taste sweet enough to me, lassie." His tongue touched her neck.
Nicola felt nothing, not even revulsion. All that lived within her was the need to win free of their touch. She brought her knees to her chest as Alan grabbed her by her hair. He drew a hand to slap her, and she kicked out. Her heel caught him on the chin. Alan's head snapped back.
He screamed, spittle stained red with blood. He clumsily drew his dagger with his left hand.
As his short weapon descended, Nicola again drew her legs to her chest. His dagger's edge caught her shin, slicing through stockings and skin. She braced her feet against Alan's midsection, lifting the straining man on her feet until he nearly stood upright.
Keeping one foot shoved into his stomach, Nicola drew back the other, aiming for his chest. As she kicked, he thrust hard against her bracing leg, forcing her knee to bend. Instead of his chest, her heel smashed into his throat. Alan's eyes bulged as he caught at his neck, his face going white. He dropped to writhe in agony on the ground.
"Alan!" one of her captors screamed.
Bucking wildly against their hold, Nicola managed to free one arm. The other man instantly released her and sidled away. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing up Dickon's rusty blade as she moved. The two men scurried into the brush like the mice they were.
"Wait for me," cried the lad as he wobbled unsteadily after them, hand over dripping nose.
Nicola stared after them, her hand tight on the sword's hilt, her heart dead within her chest. The heavens breathed for her, a keening, frigid wind. Icy sleet pelted her. The empty coldness within her matched the air around her.
She drew a long breath and turned on Alan. He yet twisted on the ground, trying to drag air through his crushed throat. His dagger lay beside him. Nicola reached for it, vaguely surprised that her hand was so steady. She cut the ties on his vest so she could open it, then sheathed his knife in her belt and straightened.
With the flat of the ancient blade, she turned back the man's hauberk and rested the sword's tip against his heart. All she need do to take his life was lean on the hilt. Yet, Nicola stood frozen in place, her coward's heart incapable of allowing her to do cold-blooded murder. The emptiness within her expanded until she was void of all thought.
Only when Alan's movements ceased as he relaxed into death could Nicola shift her weight, her blade sliding into him. She turned without a sound and started up the road, following Tilda. For a time there was no pain in her feet or her injured leg. Slowly sensation returned and her leg began to burn, her ribs to ache, and her feet began again to throb.
It was about a half mile before she found the girl and the nag at the roadside. Nicola stopped to stare at her friend. One cheek bore the red mark of a slap, a great bruise now purpled her jaw, and her nose looked swollen. The silence between them was heavy and tense. Then Tilda's expression twisted in shame and sorrow.
Nicola opened her mouth to speak and tried twice before the words actually exited. "You left me." It was a shocked whisper. With it, the blankness within her receded further, exposing new emotional pain in its wake.
Like a key, Nicola's words released Tilda from the trap of guilt. The pretty lines of her face resolved themselves into an uncaring expression, and she casually shrugged. "They meant you no harm. You, after all, are noble born and worth something, while I am but a commoner. I dared not stay nearby when they intended me as their winter whore, to be killed when they were finished with me."
"You left me to save yourself, not caring whether I lived or died." Nicola released her breath in a shuddering sigh. Somewhere, deep inside, anger's warmth returned. It was welcome after the awful coldness.
"You seem to have survived well enough." Her friend's attempt at a smile was horrible in its falseness. She led the nag back onto the road. "Here, you ride the horse for a time. We must keep moving."
"Why?" Nicola's harsh question echoed against the leaden sky. She let her eyes narrow as she studied Tilda. "Whatever have you been doing these last four months, my girl? I think 'tis time we share secrets."
"What I do is no business of yours," Tilda retorted.
"On the contrary, your soul is tied to Ashby, and I am your lady. You had best tell me where you spent these last months." Nicola was startled by both the words and her commanding tones. It the first time she'd ever spoken so to Tilda.
Her friend's brows drew down. "I will answer to no one for my deeds, especially not you."
Nicola straightened to her tallest. "Then, shall I suggest a scene for you? Since the whole countryside knows Hugh keeps women, I think you have lived these last months at Ocslade as his leman. He never expected that contract to wrest me from Lord Gilliam, nor did he believe I truly meant to wed him. What Hugh needed was some tool with which to catch me. That was your role in this. You were not only supposed to steal me from Graistan, but to soothe me into his custody. Which brings us to one, final question: How much did he pay you to deliver me?"
Guilt again washed over Tilda's face, then disappeared behind a snide and superior look. "What difference does that make when you mean to go to him anyway? If he's fool enough to pay me for what he could freely have, let him pay."
"You did," Nicola breathed in aching astonishment. She hadn't realized how deeply she'd needed to hear Tilda's denial. "You really took coins in exchange for me."
Tilda only shrugged. "Aye, but what did you expect? Ashby's burning cost me everything I had worked so hard to gain."
"Worked? I thought men gave you those trinkets as gifts for love's sake. Do you now say that you spread your legs for them in expectation of payment?" Nicola retorted taking no time to consider what she said. She gasped in shock, but it was too late to retract her words.
Tilda's face went white in hurt, then darkened in rage. "Who are you to chastise me? At least I accept what I am. Look at you. You so fear being a woman that you pretend to be a man."
"Nay," Nicola protested faintly, clapping her hands to her ears to shut out the vicious words, each one a knife's blow to her heart.
Tilda set her hands on her hips. "If you are an impossible woman that no man could love, you are even worse as a man. How clever you thought yourself, Colette. 'I'll hold the walls against Graistan's brother, Tilda,' said you to me. 'When Lord Rannulf sees how capable I am, he'll give me Ashby as my own.' Meanwhile Lord Gilliam's ballista battered our walls to dust, and you did not open our door." Her voice rose to a painful cry. "Now Ashby lies in ruins, and my mother is dead, Colette. You killed them both, my mother, your father. You killed them."
"Not my fault," Nicola pleaded quietly to herself, yet guilt ate at her. She had been so certain of her abilities, so sure of herself that she dared risk all her folk by helping her stepmother hold Lord Rannulf prisoner, even in the face of his brother's attack. From the recesses of her memory came the terrible ringing of stone crashing against stone, the roaring of the flames, the screams of her dying folk, and the sight of Gilliam FitzHenry’s blade burying into her father's body.
Tilda stepped close and clutched at the front of Nicola's capuchin to force the tall noblewoman to look at her. "How do you bear the weight of what you've done?" she whispered cruelly, then turned her back on Nicola.
Nicola squeezed shut her eyes. The wind moaned around her, holding within its airy depths the pleas of those who had died. They had looked to her for protection, and she had betrayed them for her own selfish purpose.
"Nay." She backed unsteadily away from the girl, repeating the litany that had shielded her from her sin these last months. "It wasn’t my fault. None of this would have happened if Lord Rannulf hadn't married that witch to Papa. His meddling is the cause for this. Damn you, it’s not my fault. Not my fault," she repeated, barely louder than a whisper.
Tilda turned to glare at her. "For revenge's sake, I sold you to de Ocslade. Now, I will go fetch your bridegroom for you, Colette. Know that he is disgusted by the thought of wedding you and intends to chain you like a dog. Whilst he does so, know that what he pays me will guarantee me a long and rich life in freedom." She turned and mounted the sorry nag.
"Tilda, it wasn’t me who killed your mother. I saw her die on FitzHenry's blade, just as my father died. You must listen to me," Nicola cried suddenly, but she no more accepted this excuse than Tilda did.
"Nay!” Tilda shouted back. “Your pride cost her life. We are finished, you and I, but I leave you with this warning: If you do not wish to be Hugh's prisoner, go another direction." With that, she set her heels to the poor creature's sides, and the horse trotted down the road.
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