by Barbara Bard
With barely enough time to mount their own horses and ready themselves for a fight, Ranulf and his clansmen brandished swords and pikes. Leading the charge, Ranulf screamed his war cry, spurring his horse straight at the leader, a tall man wearing a black cloak and hood. His clansmen slammed headlong into his band of seven riders, driving their pikes into faces and throats.
Wishing she had her bow, Catrin reined in her chestnut stallion, who tried to rear. She could only watch, helpless, as Ranulf and his men fought the outlaws. Their horses nose to tail, Ranulf and the leader in black fought with swords, cursing as their blades rang against one another, neither able to push past the other’s guard.
One of Ranulf’s clansmen fell from his horse, his throat sliced open. He died, choking, gasping for air and bleeding out like a slaughtered lamb, as his fellows tried to protect him. A pike took out a brigand as the clansman shoved it through his chain mail and deep into his chest. Losing hold of the pike’s shaft as the outlaw tumbled from his saddle, the man at arms drew his sword and spurred his horse straight at another. Fighting three against five, the Scottish redoubled their efforts, swinging steel against steel. A clansman used his pike to drive two of the brigands back, then threw it.
The pike’s blade sank deep into his target’s throat, throwing him from the saddle. His teeth bared in a dreadful grimace, the Scot drove his horse, rearing, at his second enemy. His horse’s hooves shattered the brigand’s arm, forcing him to drop his sword. Before the clansman could skewer him, he broke and fled, galloping back up the incline.
Seeing him run, the other two also wheeled their horses, setting spurs to sweaty hides. Screaming jeers, the Highlanders gave chase, holding their swords high over their heads. Catrin trotted her chestnut toward them, seeing Ranulf still locked in battle with the outlaw in black.
His hood thrown back from his face, she saw his dark hair and beard, blood oozing down his cheek from Ranulf’s wicked slash. But Ranulf also bled, his left arm hanging useless at his side. Using his knees to guide his bay, he fought sword to sword against the outlaw leader, never giving an inch. Little by little, the dark man’s horse gave way, forced backward by the bigger animal.
Unable to use his sword with two hands, Ranulf swung his blade fast, creating a ring of steel the other could not get through. His bay’s teeth slashing at the outlaw’s tall horse forced the other mount to try to dodge, despite the spur blood streaming from his flanks in a savage effort to drive him forward.
With a wild cry, Ranulf attacked with fresh energy, standing in his stirrups as his stallion, ears flattened, hacked at the other horse with bared teeth. Bleeding on his head and neck, the dark man’s horse faltered, stumbling. The outlaw’s sword dropped. Ranulf drove the tip of his blade deep into the man’s mail and into his shoulder.
With a scream, the bearded outlaw swung his own blade and slammed it into Ranulf’s. The sword, flung from both his wound and Ranulf’s hand, flew out to land on the heather. Before the dark man could slash at Ranulf’s throat, Ranulf spurred his mount hard. The bay reared, his front legs high, and slammed into the other. The brigand lost his grip on his sword and was almost thrown from his saddle.
Apparently realizing he stood no further chance of killing Ranulf, the cloaked outlaw reined his horse toward the peak and kicked it into a gallop. Spurring for all he was worth, he rode over the top of the hill and vanished. Ranulf sat his sweaty and panting horse, watching his enemy flee. Catrin cantered her chestnut to him.
“Ranulf,” she said, reaching for him. “You are hurt. How bad?”
He raised a faint grin. “Bad enough.”
Glancing around, he grimaced when he discovered his dead clansman, his throat opened and blood pooling around his head. One of the others galloped headlong down the hill and reined in beside Ranulf and saluted.
“Donald be daid, laird,” Grady said, his tone filled with sorrow. “Ian and Culley do be bringin’ him doon.”
Ranulf nodded. His lips turned up in a strange grin as he glanced at Catrin. “I nae think I am aboot tae swoon.”
His eyes rolling up into his head, Ranulf fell from his saddle and crashed to the ground.
Chapter 11
When Ranulf woke, he stared up into darkness, seeing little. Trying to remember what happened and how he got there, he squinted into the gloom, and at last saw stars gleaming like diamonds in the night sky. He scented woodsmoke, and heard the crackling and snapping of a campfire not far from his right. A hand brushed his brow, and he turned his head.
Catrin sat beside him, the fire’s light illuminating her beautiful features, yet her eyes remained cast in shadow. As he woke further, pain from the brigand’s sword cut in his left shoulder also awakened and he groaned. “Shite, lass, how long I been oot?”
“Quite a while,” she answered, lifting the blanket covering him to inspect his wound. “The sun just went down. I stitched your cut. You will recover, but you lost a lot of blood.”
“We cannae stay here,” he said, trying to rise. “Those bastards might come back.”
As strong as he usually was, he was no match for Catrin’s hand on his chest, pinning him back down. “Lie still,” she ordered. “Your men will watch all night, but you should not try to get up until morning. I agree, this place is not exactly safe, but we have no choice right now.”
“I can ride.”
“Of course you can,” she snapped. “But you will be dead by the time we return to the castle. Now, lie still and stop struggling, or you will undo my sewing.”
He relaxed, realizing that at the moment he was far too weak to sit in the saddle, Ranulf wondered if he might even be fit by dawn. “Those bandits be Sassenach, eh?”
Catrin nodded. “Yes, I believe they were. From their dress and what little I heard of their accents. Why would Englishmen come to Scotland to raid? And why attack men who are clearly armed and armored? As I sit here, I keep puzzling at it. It makes no sense.”
“Nay, it dae not,” he replied, squirming a little to find some ease for his agonized shoulder. “There be a bottle ‘o whiskey in me saddlebags. Might I hae a nip or three?”
“Provided you also drink some of this broth I made from the dried beef we have.”
“I wi’, lass.”
Rising, Catrin vanished into the darkness away from the light of the fire. He heard her speaking to one of his clansmen, Ian perhaps, from the sound of his voice. A few moments later, she returned with the leather bottle. Kneeling beside him, she helped him to half sit up, her knee under his right shoulder.
Taking several long swigs of the whiskey and feeling it burn down his throat, Ranulf sighed deeply. “Me thanks.”
Easing him back down and leaving the bottle beside him, Catrin went to the fire. He watched her as she scooped liquid from the small pot hanging there into a cup, then knelt beside him once more. Sipping the steaming broth, it eased a hunger inside him he did not know he had.
Lying back down, feeling his pain recede and exhaustion overwhelm him, he took her hand. “Ye get yer sleep this night, lass.”
She smiled down at him and brushed her fingers over his brow. “I will watch over you,” she said. “The cloaked man left his sword behind when he fled. I will use it for the time being, just in case he comes back to reclaim it.”
Ranulf, feeling his eyelids droop and sleep encroach, said, “Ach, I hae nae doubt ye wi’ win the fight should ye and he dae battle.”
His fatigue taking him down into slumber, Ranulf let it consume him, and he slept.
Riding back to his castle, even at a quiet walk, took every bit of strength Ranulf possessed. With Ian leading his stallion, he gripped the pommel with both hands in order to not fall off. Catrin rode beside him, her hand ready to push him back should he appear to topple out of it. Culley rode as the rear guard, keeping a watchful eye out for trouble while Grady rode to his other side. Both led the horses of his slain men, their corpses hanging across their saddles.
Weak and in pain, Ranulf drifted in an
d out of consciousness, only to wake again into burning agony from his wound. The sun rode high overhead when he roused to find strong hands dragging him down from his saddle. He grit his teeth to prevent a scream from bursting forth, but knew a groan emerged.
Oddly, he heard Catrin’s voice giving his people orders as to being careful while his clansmen carried him into the castle, to prepare hot water as well as demands for fresh, clean cloth for bandages. Blacking out again, Ranulf woke in his own chambers and bed with Catrin replacing his bloody dressings with clean. Noticing him awake, she offered him a quick smile.
“At least you did not come undone,” she said. “My sewing survived intact. But you have a fever, Ranulf. Your wound may have become infected.”
He nodded, weak. “I feel it.”
“I will look after you,” she went on. “You must try to eat as much as you can. I have food on its way.”
“I wi’.”
“I ordered a few herbs be added to it to help you heal,” she said. “I fear you will remain in your bed a while.”
The food turned out to be a thin beef and lamb stew with onions, feverfew, mug wort and garlic. Though he was not hungry, he ate as much as he could. At her insistence, he swallowed until he knew that if he took down more, he would throw it all back up.
“Nay,” he muttered, “nae more.”
“All right. But drink some water.”
Gasping, Ranulf rested his head back on the pillow. Knowing that a simple thanks for her caring for him was hardly enough payment, he managed a weak smile as she bathed his face and chest in cold water to cool his fever.
“Ye be a fine woman,” he whispered.
“I try to be,” she replied, meeting his eyes with calm levelness. “Though you kidnapped me, you have treated me well, and cared for me. I cannot but respect you as a man of honor.”
“I ne’er should ‘o done it.”
“Perhaps not. But as long as I am here, I will care for you. Now, close your eyes and get some sleep.”
***
It was three days before his pain and fever abated enough to permit him to sit up, leaning against the headboard. All the while, Catrin slept on a small trundle bed beside his own, feeding him, cleaning his wound through the days and the nights. His man servant kept his rooms clean and the hearth fire going, but Catrin did not permit anyone else to care for him.
She did, however, let his clansmen in to offer him brief reports on the activities of his realm, and, of course, to reassure themselves that he was indeed healing and had survived. He was told his men scoured the area and found no trace of the Sassenach who attacked them.
“They be gone, laird,” Ian told him. “They done ran back ‘cross the border into England.”
“Bring me the sword the brigand leader dropped,” Ranulf said. “There may somethin’ aboot it that can tell us who he be.”
“’O coorse, laird.”
With Catrin standing beside him, Ranulf turned the outlaw’s sword this way and that, hoping to find a family crest upon its hilt. While it did not, it did have rubies and emeralds glinting on its cross piece. “This nae the sword ‘o a bandit,” he said, glancing up at Catrin and Ian. “This be a nobleman’s blade.”
Catrin nodded, troubled. “But why would a man with inherited wealth turn to robbing and thieving? I know of no one who had been stripped of his titles in recent years.”
“Perhaps a second or third son?” Ranulf ventured. “Gold and jewels enough for this but could nae inherit property and titles.”
“And rather than find an honest trade,” Catrin added. “He became an outlaw.”
“But why attack armed men?” Ian asked.
“I hae been thinking oan that,” Ranulf replied. His eyes rested on Catrin. “Ye, lass. I be thinkin’ they be after ye.”
“Me? What would an outlaw want with me?”
“I dinnae,” he said. “But ye be the only thing ‘o value that armed men might attack other armed men fer.”
Catrin shook her head, but with puzzlement and not negation. “They would have to know you took me, firstly. As I see it, someone would have to have sent them to find me.”
“Yer da.”
“No. My father does not deal with outlaws and killers.”
“Think ‘o it, lass,” Ranulf went on. “Yer da cannae cross into Scotland withoot startin’ a war. But a brigand can and wi’.”
Catrin stood and paced around his chamber, obviously restless, worried. “My father would not risk my safety in the hands of outlaws, Ranulf. Who knows what a murderer might do to me?”
“Were ye’ betrothed?”
She shook her head. “No. So it cannot be a concerned future husband.”
“Gilbert ‘o Hargrove ken it, laird,” Ian said. “He nae be a man ‘o honor.”
Jolted, Catrin ceased pacing. “Oh, my God. Could he have hired men to bring me back?”
“Perhaps yer da put a reward up fer ye,” Ranulf said, setting the jeweled sword aside, next to his bed. “Gilbert do be interested in gettin’ his hands oan ye.”
“That makes more sense,” Catrin admitted. “But would he stoop low enough to hire murderers to bring me back to England?”
“He killed an innocent shepherd lad,” Ranulf reminded her, his voice harsh. “Ne’er ferget that, lass.”
“And a man who would shoot a boy in the throat can never be trusted,” Catrin said, sighing and sitting back down beside his bed. “He is capable of anything, I expect.”
“Right.”
She eyed Ranulf with a wry smile. “I suppose I am safer in your hands than out of them. For the time being.”
Chapter 12
In the vast hall filled with wooden tables and benches built for hundreds of guests, the Duke of Whitewood dined alone. The place echoed with the ghosts of those who had lived and died here before him. Lit rush lights pushed back the gloom, but nothing could chase the shadows from his heart. Beckoning a servant to refill his silver chased goblet of wine, he missed both his children. His son, Henry, now rotted in his grave, and Catrin, stolen by that black heart, Ranulf of Scotland.
A clatter at the far end of the hall heralded Sir Alban. The knight, clad in light chain mail and a conical steel helmet walked toward him, his hand on his sword hilt. His scarlet cloak streamed out behind him as he approached to bow low. Henry dropped his bread to his plate.
“Anything?” he asked.
“I am afraid not,” Sir Alban replied. “I cannot find any trace of Black Charlie or his outlaws.”
“Bloody hell.” Henry swore, clenching his fist.
“Perhaps, Your Grace, he decided the price you are willing to pay was not worth the risk.”
“One hundred twenty five gold crowns is enough for any man to risk,” Henry replied, seething inwardly. “Perhaps Ranulf proved too much for the man and he got himself killed.”
Sir Alban nodded. “That may be, but I should think word of that would have gotten back to his lair at The Lucky Hog if that had happened.”
“And no one there has heard from him? None of his cutthroats have returned with his corpse?”
“Not that I am able to find, Your Grace.”
His appetite gone, Henry leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “It has been almost two weeks since that rogue took her,” he muttered. “What evil things is he doing to her? Rape? Torture?”
“Would you care for my opinion on the matter?”
Henry nodded. “Go ahead.”
“If I were Ranulf Thorburn,” Sir Alban said slowly. “His greatest revenge on you would be to marry her.”
“Good God.”
Standing shakily, he dipped his chin in a silent request for assistance. Sir Alban hurried around the table and up onto the dais, looping his armored arm through Henry’s to support him as he walked down.
“But a forced marriage is not enforceable by the Church in either England or Scotland,” Henry mused as he made his slow way toward the doors. “He cannot possibly in
herit her wealth and titles upon my death under those circumstances.”
“Perhaps that is not his aim,” Sir Alban replied. “Just by marrying her and consummating it might be all he craves.”
“I would almost rather he killed her than see Catrin married to that bastard.”
“And thus, have his revenge on you.”
Before they reached the hall doors, they opened. A liveried servant hurried toward him and bowed low. “Your Grace,” he said, slightly out of breath. “The Earl of Hargrove has arrived and has requested an audience.”
