by Wayne Grant
Sir Edgar looked past the circling riders and saw young Gunnar drawing a short sword and running toward the melee in the courtyard. The Master of the Sword cursed. Danesford, he knew, was a lost cause and the boy was going to get himself killed for nothing. Then he saw a sight that made his stomach clench.
Standing at the entrance to the hall he saw Lady Millicent, a drawn sword in her hand. He screamed at her to run, but in the din, she did not hear. Or perhaps she heard and refused to heed his order. She was a damned stubborn woman, but he loved her for all that. And now he’d failed her.
With a roar, half in defiance and half in anguish, he rushed at the ring of riders, swinging his great battleaxe in long, vicious arcs. The nearest rider gave his horse the spurs, seeking to ride the man down, but Sir Edgar dodged to his right, punching the warhorse in the face as he moved. Startled, the big horse bucked and its rider was thrown, falling in the dust where one swing of Sir Edgar’s axe crushed the man’s skull like a chicken’s egg.
He turned to face the next intruder, then gasped as a crossbow bolt struck him between his shoulder blades. He whirled around to see two of his men falling as more quarrels were unleashed by the riders. Ignoring the pain from his wound, Sir Edgar charged once more at the circle of horsemen. Two more crossbow bolts struck him and he faltered, then sank to his knees. The world swam before his eyes as he toppled forward.
Danesford had fallen.
***
Millicent saw them go down, one by one. First the men-at-arms, then Sir Edgar and finally, poor young Gunnar. The sight tore at her heart and all at once she felt foolish standing there in front of her home with a sword in her hand. She and Roland had worked and sweated and dreamed many dreams to make this little fort on the Weaver a home. But dreams, she knew, sometimes turned into nightmares in a dangerous world and so they had on this chill night.
Having struck down the fort’s defenders, the riders now turned toward the hall. Millicent sprang back through the main door and dropped the bar behind her. She ran across the common room and through the kitchen, bursting out of the rear door and running hard toward the small bolt-hole they’d built into the base of the rear wall. Behind her she heard the sound of horses hooves coming fast around the corner of the hall.
She dared not slow down as she neared her only hope of escape. She saw it in the dark, only ten paces ahead. Leaning forward, she dropped to her knees and crawled toward the small opening. She ducked her head into the hole and frantically dragged herself beneath the wall using her elbows and knees to crawl forward. Her head rose above the concealed trench outside the palisade and she slid her knees beneath her, ready to climb to her feet and run. Then an arm was thrust through the hole in the fence and a strong hand grasped her ankle.
She twisted onto her back and kicked frantically at the fist that held her, but it did not release its iron grip. Violently, she was jerked back into the hole and felt herself being dragged back under the wall. She dug her hands into the dirt but to no avail as she was pulled back into the fort. A half dozen men stood around the bolt hole watching her struggle.
The man who held her ankle released it and grabbed her roughly by the hair, hauling her to her feet. She tried to pull away, but the man twisted her long hair into a knot around his hand and jerked her head back. He drew her face to within inches of his own and grinned at her. His breath was fetid, but there was something worse.
He had the eyes of a dead man.
***
Finn Mac Clure tripped on a root in the dark and almost sprawled on his face, but managed to recover. The little boy he carried on his back did not wake. They’d been walking north along the banks of the Weaver for an hour and would soon follow a great bend in the river’s course, first to the west and then back south to reach the farmstead of Oren Inness, six miles from Danesford. Finn had followed this path many times during daylight, but never at night and this night there were clouds hiding the full moon, making the trail more treacherous than usual.
The squire was thankful that Rolf continued to sleep. The boy had wakened a few times, but had been lulled back to sleep as they walked. Lorea had taken turns with him carrying the child on their backs as they’d fled from the calamity behind them. As the three made their way through the warm summer night Finn saw a glow in the night sky behind them. He’d grown up amidst the brutal wars in Ireland and knew what that glow meant—Danesford was gone. He said nothing to Lorea, though he suspected the girl had seen the glow as well and knew its import.
Finn lowered his gaze to the shadowy path before him and trudged on. Whatever the fate of Danesford, or the people they’d left behind there, he knew his duty as a squire to Sir Roland Inness was to see his knight’s son and sister safely away from danger. Come what may, he would see that duty was done.
***
The raiders rode east, their captive mounted on one of her own mares and her hands bound before her. Millicent Inness twisted in her saddle and looked back to the west where she saw a ghastly yellow light growing in the night sky. Like Finn, she knew what that light meant. She’d seen the same glow in the sky the night William de Ferrers burned Shipbrook.
Danesford was gone and a dozen good men were dead.
The fort could be rebuilt as Shipbrook had been, but there would be no bringing back Edgar Langton, that fierce giant with the gentle soul or poor young Gunnar—or any of the rest of their men. There would be weeping in the valley of the River Weaver come the dawn when mothers learned their sons were dead. But Millicent Inness did not weep. There would be time for that later.
Now her heart was filled with a cold anger.
She did not know who these men were or what they intended to do with her. She couldn’t help but recall her abduction by Welsh bandits years ago. They’d fled with her into the wilds of the Clocaenog forest, thinking themselves safe there. But her father’s squire had tracked them down and helped her escape. Roland Inness was off in France now and would not be coming to her rescue, but word of this outrage would reach her father in Chester quickly.
There was no doubt Sir Roger de Laval would come for her. And finding her would be no great chore. A score of iron shod horses would leave a trail anyone could follow, but she had to wonder. Why had these men taken her in the first place? There was no treasure at Danesford and they had not even searched for any before mounting their horses and riding out. Was she to be held for ransom? The Welshmen who’d taken her years ago had wanted her father to open the border for their raids into Cheshire, but she couldn’t fathom what these men might want.
For now, she would wait and watch and, if given the chance, she’d run.
Tracker
The raiding party splashed through the Birkin Brook ten miles from Danesford long before dawn. Clouds that had hidden the full moon had drifted away and the little stream glistened in the silvery light. Barca called a halt when the last man reached the far bank and ordered the men to feed and water the horses. Millicent was not allowed to dismount as her horse was led down to the stream to drink.
Henry Catchpole watched her and was amused to see the girl wouldn’t return his gaze. She stared straight ahead as the horse dipped its head and drank. She seemed docile enough, but they’d been warned not to take chances with her. Catchpole had tied her ankles together by a length of cord that ran beneath her horse’s belly to ensure she stayed in the saddle. And they’d been told she was a capable rider, so Barca had ordered her horse tied by a lead rope to one of his men’s saddle. She’d be given no chance to make a sudden dash for freedom on horseback.
Catchpole went down on one knee and scooped up a handful of water that he held up to the girl. She turned away.
She’s a proud one, he thought.
But they’re all proud—until the iron gets hot and the blade gets close to the skin. Then they aren’t so haughty. Peasant or high-born, they all beg for mercy in the end. He didn’t know what the Earl had in mind for this one, but when de Ferrers was done with the lady, perhaps he’d let Henry
Catchpole have a turn with her. The thought brought a thin smile to his lips.
***
As her horse drank from the stream, Millicent stared straight ahead. She was bone tired and had a raging thirst, but she’d be damned if she’d ask favours of these men who’d burned her home and killed her friends. The path they’d taken from Danesford to this ford at the Birkin Brook was known to her. It ran through sparsely-settled land and they’d passed only a few small farmsteads in the night. Ahead she knew the road split, with a branch going north into Lancashire and another turning east toward Derbyshire. Either way, she knew that any Dane above the age of ten could follow the tracks of these riders. She felt certain that Oren would soon be on her trail.
As they rode through the night she’d coolly assessed her chances to escape and found them to be none too promising. She couldn’t slip out of her saddle with her ankles bound and couldn’t get her horse free from the lead it was on. She would have to wait for her opportunity once they reached their destination, wherever that was. In the meantime, she’d slyly slipped a thin wooden pick from her hair and dropped it on the trail. It would tell whoever might be tracking her that she was alive. That would have to do for now.
She glanced to her left and saw the man who’d dragged her out of the bolt hole staring at her. He bent down and scooped up water in his hand and offered it to her. Despite her thirst, the thought of lapping water like a dog from this man’s hand repelled her. She turned her head away and ignored him.
Her captors had treated her roughly when she’d been taken, but had not abused her since. Their forbearance suggested they had plans for her that required them to keep her whole and unharmed. That was comforting, but was in no way certain. And she sensed, if given the opportunity, the man with the dead eyes would leave her neither whole nor unharmed.
A barked command came from their leader and the raiders mounted. The man who had her horse’s lead jerked on the rope and turned her mount around. They resumed their trek with the first hints of dawn on the eastern horizon.
***
It was a little before dawn when Oren Inness and Finn Mac Clure reached the smouldering ruins on the small rise above the ford on the River Weaver. They’d left Lorea and Rolf with Odo Kjeldsen’s wife and the old Dane who’d once been the Inness family’s closest neighbour on Kinder Scout had come with them.
A dozen local farmers had already been drawn to the site, alerted to trouble by the glow of flames in the night or the plumes of smoke at first light. Oren slid off his horse and stared at the fire-blackened stone hearth of the great hall standing alone in the middle of the destruction. All else had been burned to ash and charred wood. And amidst the smoking piles of burnt timber were the bodies, still lying where they’d fallen in the night.
Finn let out an involuntary gasp when he saw the familiar form of Sir Edgar Langton lying in the dirt of the courtyard. The big man lay on his back, pierced by crossbow bolts and still gripping his great war axe in a lifeless fist. Finn ran and knelt beside the body of Danesford’s Master of the Sword. The boy bit his lip to hold back the tears, but failed and wept openly over the remains of his friend and mentor.
Oren did not linger over the strewn corpses in the courtyard. He picked his way through the remains of the hall looking for a body there and praying he would not find one.
“Millie!” he shouted, but got no reply. He called her name again and heard only his own voice echoing from the river valley below.
As the eastern sky lightened, more Danes arrived, some from as far away as ten miles. Word of the attack on Danesford had spread like wildfire up and down the valley of the Weaver. They joined Oren searching through the debris of the little fort looking for anyone left alive. They found only the dead.
No females lay among the slaughtered defenders of Danesford, leaving only one conclusion. Millicent Inness had been taken by the raiders. Oren had seen the fresh hoof marks of many horses outside the gate, but had resisted the urge to follow where they led until they’d searched the ruins of the fort. As the search for survivors ended, he ordered men to bury the dead and summoned Finn to his side.
“Get to Chester, Finn. Tell Sir Roger what happened here. Tell him I believe the men who did this have Lady Millicent and I am tracking them. Once I know where they’ve taken her, I’ll return here. Understood?
“Aye,” Finn said and did not wait for further instruction. He climbed up on a borrowed horse and headed down to the ford where wisps of smoke still hung above the water. With Finn dispatched to take the dire news to Sir Roger de Laval, Oren stepped through the burnt-out gate and examined the hoof prints.
A score of riders at the least, he thought.
Odo stepped up beside him.
“What’s yer plan, Oren?” the old Dane asked.
“Find them and get my brother’s wife back!” he said grimly.
“Not alone, lad. Not against a score of riders,” Odo said gesturing toward the churned up hoofprints by the gate. “I can read the sign too.”
Oren nodded.
“Gather the men who are willing to come, Odo. I’ve sent Finn for Sir Roger. Wait here for him. I’ll find where they’ve taken Lady Millicent and be back. Then we’ll do what we must.”
“We’ll be ready, but take care, Oren,” he said looking over the strewn bodies of the Danesford garrison. “These are bad men yer tracking.”
Oren nodded and looked off to the east where the tracks led. He checked the arrows in his quiver and slung his longbow over his shoulder. He took a last look at the ruins of Danesford then set off at a trot toward the rising sun.
***
Oren had followed the trail of the horses at a steady lope for an hour when his eye caught something out of place on the trail. He snatched up the wooden pick and stuffed it in his tunic.
Clever woman, he thought.
He’d always admired his brother’s wife for the work she’d done to help the refugee Danes settle in the valley of the Weaver. They’d fled from Derbyshire with naught but the clothes on their backs and it was Millicent Inness, more than anyone, who had made good on Earl Ranulf’s promises. She’d seen to the proper recording of the charters for the land the Earl had promised and more than that, she’d found seed from stocks in Chester for their spring planting and spare tools to harvest their crops in the autumn. Millicent had lent out horses for ploughing and ordered a communal barn built not far from Danesford to store surplus grain.
The Danes might look to Roland Inness for protection, but it was to Millicent Inness they looked for help with carving out a new life in a new land. This she’d given with an open heart. And close to Oren’s own heart, she’d happily taken in Lorea, his sister. The little girl had needed a mother and though Millicent was but sixteen when Lorea came to Danesford, she’d welcomed the little girl with open arms and provided her with a loving home.
Now it was time to pay back her kindness.
By midmorning he reached the Birkin Brook and splashed across the knee-deep stream. The bank on the opposite side was still damp where horses had been drinking. He stopped long enough to scoop up two handfuls of water and gulp them down, then resumed his steady trot to the east.
***
At the split in the trail, the raiders took the eastern fork and Millicent’s heart sank, for east lay Derbyshire and the domain of William de Ferrers. Since first her captors headed east, she’d felt in her bones that this was where they would take her, but why the Earl would attack Danesford now was puzzling to her. All knew of Roland’s oath to kill the man and no doubt de Ferrers fervently wished her husband dead, but why attack Danesford when Roland was off in France? Did the Earl not know that?
At dawn, they crossed the River Deane and pressed on to the east. When they forded the River Goyt and rode into Derbyshire, any doubts as to her destination vanished. Millicent had come this way years ago when Roland took her on a journey back to visit the graves of his mother and father high up on Kinder Scout. She knew this road also led to Castleton
where the Earl of Derby’s fortress of Peveril Castle stood.
On either side of the trail foothills began to climb toward higher peaks in the distance. It was lovely country, much different than the low hills and marshes where she’d grown up in the valley of the Dee. But as they rode further into Derbyshire, the land looked strangely barren. Good farmland here looked deserted. Here and there a farmer’s hut had been burnt and those that still stood appeared to be abandoned. At this time of year, the fields should be dotted with at least a few women and children gleaning the last of the wheat and barley harvest. But the land was empty, save for a few men she saw in the distance who scattered into the woods at first sight of the troop of riders.
Hard times, it seemed, had come back to Derbyshire.
***
It was late morning when Oren reached the River Deane. As the sun rose higher in a cloudless sky, the day had warmed a bit. At the edge of the river the young Dane went down on his belly, plunging his head into the cool water. He drank deeply before wearily rising to his feet and looking around. He knew this place.
When the Danes were driven from Derbyshire, they’d set an ambush at this ford for their pursuers. Prince John’s mercenaries had marched confidently down the steep embankment on the far side of the river and into the ford, only to be met by a hail of arrows. Dozens died that day in the waters of the Deane.
He looked across the river at the road rising up the embankment and could see the clear marks left by the raiders hours before. He wiped the water from his eyes, splashed across the river and headed up the slope on the far side.
***
Once over the border into Derbyshire, the road split again and the riders took the left fork that climbed out of the valley and into the hills. By now, Millicent was beginning to feel light-headed from a lack of food and water, but was determined to show no weakness. Another two hours brought them to a deep gorge high in the hills. The day had been unusually warm for November, but here the wind whistled up the canyon bringing a chill with it.
