Ralph gazed at the two men measuringly. Evidently they passed muster, for he kicked a stool forward. “Have a seat, yer lordship, and we’ll talk.”
Ian sat down, Dai standing behind him, and accepted the tankard of ale someone pushed across the table. “I’ve heard you’re not averse to a bit of robbery—or murder, if the price is right.”
“That depends,” Ralph said, his maimed hand toying with an elegant dagger. “What do ya have in mind, milord, and how much are ya willing to pay?”
“There’s a woman I’d like to be rid of,” Ian said. “You’d have to wait for her in the forest and set upon her party where no one will find them.”
Will groaned. “Not that again. Christ, Ralph. Last time we lost some good men. And that Welsh bastard never did pay us, did he?”
“Cease yer prattle! His lordship and I got business. He don’t want to listen to you flap yer jaws.”
Ian and Ralph settled into negotiations, swiftly coming to an agreement. Listening to the lawless band, Ian found their complete disregard for life and law fascinating. At the same time, he wished he could cleave them all into tiny bits for what they’d done to Catrin and his men.
But they were simply tools. That much was clear. And once he lured them into his domain, he intended to discover who’d hired them, although he’d heard enough tidbits to confirm his suspicions.
Ralph and his men followed Ian and Dai out of the tavern and into the woods with a total lack of concern for their own safety, the fools.
Ian’s men drifted out of the trees and surrounded them before they had a chance to draw their weapons.
“What’s goin’ on here?” Ralph demanded, struggling briefly against his captor’s hold.
Ian ignored his question, instead watching as Dai disarmed each man and placed their knives and swords in a pile. ’Twas an impressive collection, ranging from a crude dirk to the elegant dagger Ralph had toyed with in the tavern.
Ian picked the dagger from the pile and looked it over, tossing it in the air to test its balance. “A fine piece for an outlaw,” he commented, flipping it to land, quivering, in the ground between Ralph’s feet. “Where did you get it?”
“I don’t recall, milord,” Ralph said, his eyes fixed on the bejeweled hilt.
“I wonder what it would take to restore your memory?” He searched through the pile for another knife, then flung it after the first. It sliced through the leather of Ralph’s shoe, pinning his foot to the ground.
“Would you like your feet to match your hands, Ralph? ’Twould be simple enough. I could do it without getting any closer to your stinking carcass than this.”
Ralph stared at his foot, seemingly amazed to discover that only his shoe had been cut—so far. He wriggled his arms, held behind him by one of Ian’s men, but his captor didn’t release him.
“He’ll hold you till I carve you to ribbons, if I wish it.” Ian chose another knife, tossing it from hand to hand.
Ralph stood enthralled, his eyes following the blade’s sweeping arc. Finally he wrenched his gaze away. “What do ya want to know?” he asked, his voice resigned.
“Don’t tell him nothin’, Ralph,” Will cried out.
“I always knew you for a fool, Will,” Ralph muttered. He straightened and looked Ian in the eye. “’Twas from a knight we robbed in the marches. He was alone, easy pickin’ for the lot of us.”
A third knife thudded into the soil at Ralph’s feet, this time slashing the threadbare fabric of his breeches on its way to the ground. “Fine, I’ll tell you,” he yelped. “Have ya ever heard of Lord Steffan? He’s lord of Bryn Du, in Wales.”
“You’re holding my interest so far,” Ian said, his fingers caressing the sword hilt at his waist.
“He wanted to be rid of his cousin. Told us we could keep the horses and such, so long as we brought her to him. But she died, so he wouldn’t pay us. There really was a knight—a Norman, from the looks of him. We took his gear, as well.”
Ian laughed. “You made a serious mistake, Ralph. Neither of them were dead, you see. And they lived to tell their tale. Unfortunately for you—” his gaze encompassed them all “—the lady is my sister, and the knight is a powerful Norman lord.”
All of the men had lost their insolent looks, especially Ralph. “Tie them up,” he ordered. “We need them alive for now. I can scarcely wait to see Steffan’s face when I present you to him.”
Catrin crooned softly to the child in her arms, holding her close to her bosom. “Where is your papa, Katherine?” Once again she felt the thrill of knowing the child was named after her.
Gillian finished weaving her coppery tresses into a braid and covered her hair with a veil. “It’s only been a sennight, Catrin. You cannot expect them to rush in, hand Llywelyn a message and then ride away, all in an hour’s time. Unfortunately, diplomacy is tedious and slow,” she added, settling an etched copper circlet atop the veil.
“And it’s been little more than a sennight since you were delivered of this child.” Catrin placed a kiss on the babe’s soft cheek. “I still don’t think you should be up and tending to your household so soon.”
“I couldn’t stay in bed any longer. I’d have gone mad from boredom. If Rannulf were here, ’twould be a different story.” Gillian’s lips tilted in a saucy grin.
“’Tis much too soon to be thinking of that,” Catrin warned, her face warm. Although she and Gillian had had some straightforward conversations about men in general—and their men in particular—she wasn’t comfortable speaking so freely about lovemaking.
“I wish you could see your face.” Gillian giggled and tapped Catrin on the cheek. “You never used to be so easily embarrassed.”
“That’s because I was never personally involved in any of the spicier gossip. It’s not the same thing at all when you’re a part of it.”
Emma entered the room and held her arms out for the baby. Catrin handed her over reluctantly. Ever since the child’s birth, she’d had a strong hunger for a babe of her own. Perhaps she already carried Nicholas’s child in her womb, she thought, surreptitiously pressing her hand against her flat stomach. She found that the notion brightened her day.
Catrin picked up Gillian’s polished steel mirror and gazed critically at herself while Gillian spoke with Emma. Plenty of food and rest this past week had put a bloom of health on her cheeks. Her back was healing nicely and the fever had gone.
All she needed to make her life complete was for Nicholas to return.
She missed him so! Would he like the improvement in her appearance? How could he not, she thought with a rueful chuckle. Thank goodness Ian had thought to have some of her things sent from Gwal Draig. At least now she was clean and well-groomed, with her own clothing to wear.
And no binder about her breasts. She couldn’t bear the thought of trussing herself up in that contraption of torture, not when she considered how Nicholas’s eyes darkened to that lovely shade of violet when he gazed at her curves. Simply remembering sent a stream of fire burning through her body.
She nearly laughed when she thought about how easy it had been to repress her womanly feelings after her experiences at Madog’s hands. But now that Nicholas had shown her what beauty a man and woman could create together, she knew she could never return to that sterile existence. He had opened the floodgates of her emotions, allowing them to burst forth.
Her entire being had become sensitized. Not only was she aware of her own sensuality, but she reacted to her surroundings more strongly. The burgeoning scents of spring carried on a warm breeze, the delicate greens of the earth reborn—
They called to something deep inside her, reflecting her own resurrection from the cold, dark depths of her old life.
And like the awakening earth, Catrin wanted to bring forth her own new beginnings. Her life began anew with Nicholas. She’d wed him in a moment if he asked, go with him to Ashby and take up the challenges there.
There was nothing she wanted more.
“Do you
like what you see?” Gillian asked, leaning over Catrin’s shoulder to peer into the mirror.
Catrin started, her eyes focusing on the image reflected back at them. “’Tis an improvement over last week, I must admit.” She placed the mirror carefully on the table. “Are you ready to go outside?”
“Yes. I cannot hide away in here any longer. Who knows what mischief everyone’s been up to without my supervision?” Gillian laughed. “As if they really need it.”
“Your household could likely run itself, ’tis true, but I’m sure life flows more smoothly when you’re keeping a watchful eye over everything,” Catrin said as they slowly descended the stairs and crossed the hall to go outside.
They hadn’t reached the bottom of the outer stairs before shouts came from the guards on the gatehouse wall. A man, one of the villagers from the look of him, staggered through the gates and collapsed against the wall.
“Fire,” he gasped. Catrin hurried closer, Gillian on her heels. His clothes were singed and soot-stained. He reeked of smoke. “There’s fire everywhere in the village.”
Gillian directed servants to find buckets and barrels and go to the villagers’ aid. People streamed out the open gates and raced down the track to the town, Gillian and Catrin following as quickly as they could. A servant ran after them with Gillian’s basket of simples, for there were bound to be injuries.
“Are you sure you should do this, Gillian?” Catrin asked, tugging on Gillian’s trailing sleeve to stop her. “You’ve just risen from childbed. You’ve not even been churched. What if the villagers are so superstitious that they won’t allow you to help? You’ll have dragged yourself down here for nothing.”
Gillian yanked her sleeve free. “I doubt they’ll stop to think about whether the Church considers me unclean or not,” she said tartly. “None of them are overly religious, truth to tell. Besides, I’m not certain the prohibitions extend to caring for the injured—or saving their lives.” She rejoined the surge of people still rushing along the road. “Come along, Catrin.”
Shrugging, Catrin resumed walking. Personally, she didn’t hold with the Church’s bizarre ideas regarding women who’d just given birth, but there were places where those constraints were closely followed.
Such trifles fled her mind as they topped the slight rise in the road and the village came into view. ’Twas like a scene from hell, cottages in flames and people running, shouting as they fought to save their homes.
Gillian grabbed Catrin’s arm, her eyes filled with horror. “How could the entire village be engulfed so swiftly?” Seeing several people sitting or lying on the ground away from the buildings, they hastened to offer help.
Everyone in the group was hurt—burned, cut or badly bruised. The women set to work, tending their wounds. A small but steady trickle of injuries came their way as the castle folk worked with the villagers to salvage what they could.
During a lull the two women moved beneath the trees, seating themselves on cushiony piles of dry leaves. Gillian’s face was pale and she looked tired, but Catrin knew better than to suggest she return to the keep.
“I doubt there will be much left to save,” Gillian said, staring at the still-smoldering cottages. “Just so long as my people survive, I don’t care. Houses can be rebuilt.”
“What a noble sentiment.” The sneering voice came from the forest.
Startled, Catrin turned and peered through the underbrush, her hand dropping to edge beneath her skirts in search of her dagger.
“Who is there? Come out at once,” Gillian demanded. She slowly came to her feet as Steffan walked out from behind a large oak.
The comforting weight of her dagger filling her hand, Catrin rose and moved to stand between Steffan and Gillian. “What are you doing here?” she snarled. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “Go for help, Gillian. Quickly.”
Steffan folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “I don’t think so, cousin.” Catrin spun in time to see that great oaf, Huw, grab Gillian’s arms from behind and reach up to muffle her mouth.
She turned back to face Steffan. “Let her go.”
“Or what? Do you think to kill me with that trifling blade on your belt?”
Catrin lunged at him with her dagger, wanting nothing so much as to slash the smug expression from his face. He reminded her of Madog—smooth, oily charm covering the black heart of a snake.
Laughing in her face, Steffan grabbed her arm in midslash, squeezing so tightly her fingers opened and went numb, allowing the knife to drop to the ground. “You’ll not get the chance to try that again, you bitch,” he snapped, viciously wrenching her arm behind her. Pain shot up her arm and across her shoulder, so intense her knees gave way and she slumped against him.
Giving her arm one last twist, he let her drop to the ground. “Tie them,” he ordered, picking up her knife and striding past her to Gillian.
Catrin refused to pay any heed to the man trussing her arms behind her, instead focusing her attention on Gillian.
Huw finished binding Gillian’s wrists and moved away, a malicious grin splitting his face. Steffan grabbed her chin and forced her head up, slipping off the rag Huw had tied around her mouth. “Where is the brat?”
Seeing the raw fear in Gillian’s eyes, Catrin answered. “The babe is dead. ’Twas stillborn.” Stalling for time, she rose awkwardly to her knees and tried to adjust the coarse rope tied round her wrists so it didn’t hurt so much. Where was everyone? Surely by now someone should have noticed them.
But the activity in the village was centered away from them, and they’d moved too far into the sheltering trees.
Gillian appeared ready to swoon. Catrin tried again. “Leave her be, Steffan. Can’t you see she’s not well? She’s suffered enough of late, without having to deal with the likes of you.”
“No. You’re both coming with me,” he said, examining Gillian from head to toe. He grabbed at her breast and squeezed hard, laughing when tears began to run down her face. “You expect me to believe the Norman brat died, yet your breasts are full.”
Gillian jerked back to escape his grip. “It has not yet been a week, Steffan. My body hasn’t returned to normal.” She took another step back. “Get off my land, you bastard.”
“Oh, I’m leaving. But so are you,” he said, his face alight. “Get them on the horse,” he told Huw. “We’ve been here too long already. The fire won’t distract them forever.”
“You caused this?” Gillian shrieked. She kicked out at Steffan’s legs, but lost her balance. She would have fallen if Huw hadn’t grabbed her about the waist and tossed her over his shoulder.
“Let go of me, you worm!” Gillian’s next words were inaudible as Steffan tied a rag to cover her mouth.
Guessing she’d be next, Catrin filled her lungs with air and opened her mouth to let out a screech, but Steffan cut off the sound with his hand before it became more than a squeak. “Don’t abuse my good nature, cousin,” he warned, wrapping a strip of fabric over her mouth.
What good nature? she wondered, trying to jut out her jaw so she could loosen the material later. She’d vowed this would never happen to her again. Rage toward Steffan threatened to cloud her mind, but at least it kept the fear at bay. The gag smelled like him, an overpowering scent of musk and sandalwood. The odor alone was enough to make her want to vomit—not wise under the circumstances. Sweet visions of mayhem, with Steffan as the victim, filled her mind as he hefted her up onto the horse behind Gillian.
Gillian looked over her shoulder at Catrin, her eyes filled with pain.
How could they escape this?
Catrin cast a last, hopeful look back toward the burning village as Steffan led them away, but no one saw them. Leaning forward, she pressed her cheek against Gillian’s for comfort and hoped this desolate view of l’Eau Clair would not be their last.
Chapter Twenty-Six
They journeyed through the forest for hours, stopping only once when Huw realized that Gillian and Catrin couldn’t ri
de with their hands bound behind them. He adjusted their bonds, tying their wrists in front of them. Then they traveled deeper into the woods, following a path so faint Catrin could scarcely see it.
Huw and the three other men rode off a short time later—several hours into the journey, by her estimation—leaving them alone with Steffan.
Catrin had no idea where they were, or where they were going. Steffan hadn’t spoken to them since they’d left Gillian’s demesne. But he talked to himself constantly. She couldn’t hear enough to understand what he said, but the tone of his voice and his odd mannerisms made her wonder about his sanity.
Not that she’d ever considered him sane. Even as a child he had possessed grand delusions and an arrogance far above his station. But he’d been a relatively harmless annoyance then.
Now he frightened her.
For the moment though, he ignored them completely, a blessing for which she was exceedingly grateful. This reminded her too much of her abduction by Madog. Simply looking at Steffan sent a shiver of apprehension running down her spine.
At first Gillian had been able to sit straight in the saddle, but Catrin could tell that her strength was gone. She slumped back, her eyes closed. Catrin suspected she’d fallen into an exhausted doze.
She bore Gillian’s weight as best she could, but she could feel her own stamina fading away with the added burden. Surely even Steffan would have to stop sometime. The light began to fade into dusk, yet still they plodded on.
Suddenly Gillian sat up with a jolt, nearly slipping from the saddle. Catrin grabbed her belt—a difficult feat with her hands tied—and held on until she regained her balance. That strain, after Steffan’s earlier roughness, made her arms feel as if they’d been wrenched from her shoulders.
Gillian looked about, confused, until her eyes settled on Steffan. She moaned behind the gag, drooping back against Catrin for a moment, then straightening her spine.
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