With a large amount of greens in the folds of her garment, she continued to search for edible plants. She found some dill weed growing wild and collected a good measure. She fingered through a section of the foliage, coming across a blackberry bush that was bursting with fruit. Thrilled, she harvested as much as she could carry. What she could not eat, Bress would. The horse had a sweet tooth. Laden with her harvest, she emerged from the thicket and made her way back to her gobbling horse.
Sitting beside the stream, she washed her meal and ate until she was stuffed. Bress ate the dandelion heads; she ate the delicious leaves. The horse did not want the dill weed, but he munched the blackberries that turned his horse-lips purple. She tried to turn her back on him and gobble down her berries so he would not eat them, but he would bang at her with his big horse head and shove her around until she handed over the goods. In the end, he ate more than she did, but both were satisfied.
Sated, Carington’s thoughts began to turn towards the coming night. She had to either find shelter or make it, and she was not entirely sure that staying in this spot was a good idea. She had already given Creed and his evil comrades the opportunity to catch up with her, but it could not have been helped. She decided that she needed to continue on and find shelter as it became necessary. If she thought about it, she had some measure of anxiety since fleeing the English; she was fearful of what would happen if they caught her, fearful of what would happen if someone else caught her. Her flight was foolish and she knew it. But she had to keep going.
Bress was rolling around in the grass when she finally stood up. He seemed particularly happy. Grinning at his antics, she collected his lead rope and coaxed him to his feet. He stood up and shook himself like a wet dog. Pulling the horse along with her, she retraced her steps back out to the road.
The wind was picking up slightly, blowing her black hair about. Shielding her eyes from the weak mid-day sun, she gazed to the north and finally to the south, seeing not a soul in either direction. Mounting Bress, which was no easy feat considering how tall the animal was, she gathered her make-shift reins and began to trot southward along the road.
This was lush country with moors and crags about the landscape. After an hour of riding, she crested a small hill and spied a village in the distance. She could see ribbons of gray smoke rising from a few chimneys, signaling the approach of dusk and the coming evening meal. Night still fell early, even in the spring, and she made haste to the town to find someplace to sleep for the night. She hoped to find a stable or something similar for both her and the horse. Without money, she had little choice in lodgings.
Carington was careful to stay out of sight when she entered the small berg. There was a large tavern near the outskirts and she could hear the laughing and shouting coming forth from the mortar and wood structure. She paused in the shadows, watching the activity, wishing she had money to pay for such a place. She was coming to long for warmth and descent food.
For the first time since fleeing, she was beginning to feel some doubt. She was no longer sure her decision had been the wisest, but she supposed it was better than being a slave. Turning away from the laughter and smells of cooking meat, she reined Bress back in the direction she had come. She had seen a couple of outbuildings near the edge of the town that would do quite nicely if no one was using them. They had looked old and unstable, but it did not matter; shelter was shelter and she was in no position to be choosey.
Suddenly, laughter and shouting burst from the inn as several knights spilled into the avenue. They were very drunk and very happy. With minor curiosity, Carington turned to glance at them as Bress plodded back down the avenue. She did not think anything of them until one of the men looked in her direction and shouted.
“Hey!” he bellowed. “You, wench! Where are you going? Come back here!”
Panic flared in her chest. It was the attention she had feared and she cursed herself for being stupid enough to have walked right into it. Digging her booted heels into Bress’ golden sides, she roared off into the dusk. Behind her, the knights attempted to drunkenly mount their chargers. But even intoxicated, they were experienced riders and took off after her. Carington could hear the thunder of hooves behind her.
The chase was on.
CHAPTER THREE
Creed knew they would never outrun her.
The best they could hope for was tracking her horse and the animal had left distinct hoof prints in the dirt where the horses had been tethered for the night. Burle was a master tracker and had kept them on a steady path most of the morning. Surprisingly, she had continued south. He had been positive that she would have turned for home. But instead, she continued deep into English territory. It did not make much sense. But, then again, nothing about the woman did.
The entire Prudhoe escort was mounted and following within minutes of the lady’s escape. Ryton did not scold him, although Creed could tell by his brother’s expression that he was displeased. He had, in fact, put Creed in charge of her to avoid this. But she had escaped him. Stanton, in spite of being smacked in the skull by the lady, had fared better. The more Ryton stewed about it as they rode south, the more irritated he became.
“You had time to talk to her,” he said to his brother. “Where do you think she will go?”
Creed shrugged his shoulders. “We spoke of trifling things. One thing I do not profess to do is read women’s minds.”
“You should have kept a better eye on her.”
Creed did not respond; he would not explain himself to his brother when Ryton already knew that Creed’s knightly skills were beyond question. What happened was unexpected, yet in hindsight, Creed supposed he should not have left the lady standing alone with her horse. Truth was he had not given it much thought until he caught a glimpse of the big golden horse leaping over a barrier with its dark haired mistress. Then he’d just felt frustration. Frustration, with help from his brother’s remark that was now growing into anger.
Stanton cantered beside Creed on his big brown charger. The young knight had seemed particularly concerned with the matter of the escapee; in fact, he’d seemed concerned for the lady the moment they had collected her from Wether Fair. Were the man not married with a young child, one might have taken his concern for romantic interest. But Ryton knew, as did Creed, that it was just infatuation. She was a pretty girl and he was naturally fascinated. Stanton just did not have it in him to be devious or deceptive.
“Should we check the woods, Creed?” he asked, his visor flipped up and his angular face flushed. “Perhaps she has gone into hiding?”
Burle was up ahead, aboard his fat gray charger, riding on the side of the road and studying the ground. “Burle has her scent,” Creed told him. “We will wait for his opinion.”
“Perhaps you should have put someone else to guard her, Ryton,” Jory’s voice floated up from behind them, over the thunder of the hooves. “Your brother does not seem to have much luck with women.”
It was a deliberate dig, vengeance for the beating Creed had dealt him the night before. Jory had a loose mouth but was no good at backing up his assertions. Ryton did not bother turning around.
“Another word and I send you on to Prudhoe alone,” he said steadily. “After what you did last night to the lady, you are lucky that you are still in my corps. The baron will know about your actions towards the hostage, Jory. I have no use for degenerates such as you.”
Had anyone else said it, Jory would have snapped back. But Ryton was his commander and he wisely kept his mouth shut. But it did not prevent him from feeling as if, somehow, he had been the one who had been slighted.
Burle suddenly threw up a hand and everyone came to a halt. Creed, Ryton and the other knights rode up to him, watching the man point off to the east; there was an enormous meadow, as far as the eye could see, with snow-topped peaks in the distance. The land was lush and green from an early spring.
Burle got off his charger and following the hoof prints that veered off the road. “She w
ent off into the meadow.”
All eyes moved to the landscape beyond. “There is virtually no cover,” Ryton said. “If she was still in the meadow, we would see her.”
Creed spurred his charcoal charger down the road for several yards, studying the soft brown earth.
“Here,” he pointed to the road as the charger did a nervous little dance. “She came back out here.”
Burle went over to where he was pointing, kneeling down as much as his armor would allow and studying the ground. “Aye,” he nodded. “She did indeed. It looks as if she has continued south.”
“Then south we ride,” Ryton lifted a fist to the column of men behind him.
Creed had already spurred his animal forward, cantering ahead of the troops, keeping his eyes alert for the big blond horse with the little lady upon it. As time passed, he was coming to wonder if they would ever find her. There was so much danger in the world, especially for a lone female. He may have been foolish enough to have given her the opportunity to escape him, but he doubted she realized what she was getting herself into when she made the foolish decision to flee.
But one thing was for certain; either way, he was the one to blame. Christ, he felt stupid.
The knights were closing in. Bress was fast, but he was also weary. Carington ended up heading back onto the road she had traveled, a straight and wide road that gave Bress plenty of room to pick up speed. She thought she could outrun the knights and was frankly surprised they had followed her for as long and far as they had. She had expected the drunken warriors to quickly tire of the chase. But they had not. The panic she had been so adept at keeping at bay returned with a vengeance; Bress was tiring and his gait was slowing. If the knights kept their pace, they would eventually catch her.
The sky was darkening with dusk as they pounded along the road north. The men behind her were slowly closing. In the distance was a heavy patch of forest and in her fright, Carington directed Bress for the trees. Perhaps she could lose her pursuers in the bramble.
She plowed into the foliage, hearing the shouts behind her. The men were gaining ground. Bress was grunting and snorting as he raced through the trees. Branches whipped back on Carington; one caught her across the neck and she put her fingers on the wound, drawing away bright red blood. She was still directing the horse northward, paralleling the road, when suddenly the forest ended and she was in a meadow, disturbing a flock of pheasants that flew up into the air. Bress startled, reared up, took a bad step and ended up falling over on her.
Twelve hundred pounds of horseflesh pushed Carington deep into the soft, moist earth. Had the ground been hard, the fall would have most likely killed her. But the earth was very soft and the horse’s weight did nothing more than shove her down into it. By the time Bress rolled off of her, the knights were upon her.
“See here,” one of them shouted, practically falling off his charger and making haste towards her. “You should not have run, wench. Now you have hurt yourself.”
She was stunned but not hurt. Arms were reaching down to pull her up and she tried to yank away from them even in her shock.
“Let me go,” she hissed, struggling. “Take yer hands off me.”
Two of the knights had her by the arms. “By God’s Bloody Rood,” the same man who had yelled at her spoke. “She is Scots. No wonder she ran.”
The knight on her other arm shook her roughly. “What are you doing here, girl? Spying?”
The world was weaving and her ears were ringing, but it did not lessen her resolve to fight. “Let me go!” she shrieked.
The first knight yanked her hard enough to snap her head back. She ended up pressed against his chest, her small, voluptuous body wedged intimately against him.
“You are a spy, lass, admit it,” he muttered, spittle on his lips. “We know how to deal with spies.”
Her struggles increased to panicked proportions as she struggled to pull herself away from the English dog dripping spit on her shoulder. As she twisted and pulled, she suddenly noticed in her peripheral vision that Bress was still on the ground.
“Sweet Jesus!” she exclaimed softly, her panic for herself turning into panic for her horse. “Bress! He’s hurt!”
The knights would not let her go. A third knight stood beside Bress, eyeing the softly groaning horse critically.
“Broke his leg,” he said casually, hands on his hips. Then he looked to the fourth knight who had come to stand next to him. “Give me your sword so I can put this beast out of its misery.”
Carington began to weep loudly. “Nay,” she sobbed. “My sweet Bress. Let me see him. Oh, please, let me see him.”
The first knight ignored her plea, bending down to throw her over his shoulder. He was a younger man with blond eyebrows, short of stature but evidently strong. Carington fought and kicked him with every ounce of strength she possessed, trying to aim for his neck. But he wore armor and the helm protected tender spots.
As he carried her back towards his horse, she caught a glimpse of Bress on the ground, lifting his head as if trying to see where his mistress was. Sobs of grief overcame sobs of terror; she reached out as if to touch the horse, now laying crippled on the ground. She could see a bloodied right rear leg, near the ankle, and the stiff appearance of something that did not look natural jutting out of his leg. It was a bone, and she squeezed her eyes shut at the sight.
Weak with sorrow and agony, she still struggled with the knight who carried her back to his horse.
“Please,” she begged through her tears. “Please let me go to my horse. Please let me comfort him.”
The knight slapped her lightly on the buttocks. “’Tis just a horse, lady. He does not need you.”
The ring of a broadsword being unsheathed caught her attention. She could see the two knights over by Bress; one of them held his broadsword by the hilt, pointing downward as if to ram it into the ground. But he was aiming at Bress’ heaving chest. Carington screamed at the top of her lungs as the knight plunged the sword into the soft golden flesh of her beloved steed. Bress twitched and then fell still. But Carington kept screaming.
She struggled weakly with the knight, devastated at the death of her adored horse, devastated that she was being abducted. Her decision to flee the English from Prudhoe had cost too much. It had been stupid, foolish, and ill advised. She knew that now. Slave or no, she would have been better off with the men from Prudhoe and Bress would still be alive.
The knight was trying to load her onto his charger but she was not a willing burden. As he gave her a good shove to get her up on the horse, a thin wail pierced the air, rapidly growing louder until ending in a dull thudding noise a few feet from the charger. Startled, Carington looked to see a long Welsh arrow protruding out of the ground. Another wail and another arrow buried itself deep in the earth a few feet to her left.
The knight dropped her from his horse and shouted to his comrades to gather their weapons. As Carington fell to her knees and struggled to crawl away, she caught sight of chargers racing towards them from the road beyond. Great hooves threw up clods of moist earth, the thunder from the destriers filling the air with power.
She recognized Creed’s big charcoal steed leading the pack. Finding her feet, she had two thoughts; to reach Bress and to stay alive. She did not even think about the punishment she might be facing at the hands of Creed de Reyne. There was a good deal of shouting going on around her as she finally reached her horse, falling beside him in the soft, wet grass. He was still warm. Throwing her arms around his neck and laying her head on his face, she closed her eyes to the sounds of death all around her. Grief consumed her and tears started anew, almost uncaring that she was surrounded by danger.
It did not take long for the sounds of the battle to wane. Four knights against the force that Creed had brought was hardly much of an opposition. She felt a hand on her arm, a soft male voice in her ear.
“My lady?” Stanton was standing over her, his sword drawn to ward off any fighting that might come
into proximity. “Are you all right, my lady?”
She opened her eyes, looking up at him even as she continued to lie on her horse. She could not even speak. But she did nod, once. Stanton had her by the arm, his angular face laced with concern.
“Please, my lady,” he pulled gently. “You must get up. We must get you to safety.”
She shook her head, holding the horse tighter. “Nay,” she wept softly. “I canna leave him.”
Stanton’s pale eyes moved over the horse, seeing the chest wound, the leg. “Did they do this?”
She continued to sob as if her heart was broken. “They chased me and my horse fell.”
“Did they kill your horse?”
“His leg was broken.”
Stanton did not ask anything more. His eyes were up, looking for Ryton or Creed. He spied both of them standing several yards away, interrogating the only enemy knight left alive. The other three had been dispatched and were being hauled away by Prudhoe men. He finally saw Creed break away and head towards them, his massive broadsword still in his hand and his visor lowered. Even though the battle was done, he was still in full battle mode. And Stanton knew, from the atmosphere of their trek south, that his mood was as dark as the coming night.
Creed was nearly on top of them when Stanton spoke.
“Those knights chased her and the horse broke his leg in the process,” he said, hoping that Creed would take some pity on her before letting loose his punishment. “She is unharmed.”
For a man whose entire reputation was based on an unflappable demeanor, the full-blown fury Creed was feeling in his veins was uncharacteristic. He paused next to the big blond horse, watching the lady weep quietly over the beast. It was difficult to isolate why, exactly, he was angry; at the lady for escaping, at himself for feeling like a fool, or at the knights for making an attempt against her. But he realized, above all else, that he was angry because he felt fear. He was unused to fear in any form.
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