by Anne Herries
‘You caught her, then,’ one of the other men said, coming up to him. ‘Damn it, Boris, you’ve near killed the poor wench!’
‘She fights like a hellcat,’ the first man said. ‘I had to subdue her.’
‘She’s lost her senses for the moment. I hope for your sake that you haven’t damaged her permanently. If you’ve lost him a chance of her lands, Danewold will hang you from the nearest tree, Boris.’
‘I slapped her, that’s all.’ Boris glowered at him. ‘She’ll come round in a few minutes.’
‘You’d better take good care of her. I wouldn’t be in your shoes if she dies.’
‘Help me with her, Jedro, and I’ll pay you five silver pennies,’ Boris said, looking nervous now. ‘I swear I never meant to hurt the stupid wench.’
‘We’ll look after her together; if she lives. we’ll share the gold Danewold promised. If she dies…’
‘If she dies, we’d better leave her and run for our lives,’ Boris said. ‘You don’t think she will—do you?’
‘You’d best leave the care of her to me,’ the crafty Jedro said, already sure that it was only a matter of time before she began to stir. ‘Go and tell the others that she fell and hurt herself. I’ll see if I can bring her round, and then I’ll follow.’
Boris hesitated. He was not known for his wits and had acted unthinkingly when Elona bit him, and yet he suspected that his companion might try to cheat him of his share of the reward.
He moved closer to Jedro, his eyes glittering with menace. ‘I caught her, remember that. Cheat me and you won’t live to spend the gold!’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Jedro muttered. ‘Go and tell the others we’ve got her. I’ll see if I can bring her round and then I’ll join you.’
Boris had laid Elona on the ground. He glanced down at her pale face, then went off, his dull brain beginning to see a way through the maze. He would tell the others that he and Jedro had caught her together, but that it was Jedro who had hit her. The plan seemed a good one to him and he smiled as he left his companion to tend the girl.
Jedro took a drinking horn from the belt at his hips, holding it to Elona’s mouth and tipping a little of the contents down her throat. It was a potent wine and would bring her round if her wits were not scattered from that brute’s blow.
Elona choked and her eyelids fluttered. She gave a cry as she opened them and looked up at the man bending over her. He had a dark, wrinkled face with a scar at his left eyebrow, but it was not the man who had threatened her earlier.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, shrinking back. ‘What are you doing to me?’
‘I am going to look after you,’ he told her. ‘Be careful, lady, for if we are heard I shall not be allowed to help you.’
‘Baron Danewold…you are one of his men?’
‘For my sins,’ he acknowledged. ‘I was bound to him at birth and have no choice but to serve him, lady. However, I would not have you mistreated and I shall guard you well until you are in my master’s care.’
‘Help me to escape and I shall pay you well. My father would take you into his service…’ She faltered as she saw the expression in his eyes. ‘What is it? Tell me at once, I pray you.’
‘I do not like to tell you such news, lady.’
‘What news?’
‘Your father—the Lord John de Barre—he was taken ill two days after you left your home and…died soon after.’
‘My father dead…’
Elona was stunned by his news. She stared at him, feeling close to despair. Her father had sent her away so that she had not been with him at the end, and now she would never see him again. Grief overwhelmed her. Her eyes filled with tears, trickling unheeded down her cheeks. Now she was truly alone, for there was no one to care for her.
‘Do not weep, lady,’ Jedro said. ‘I did not wish to tell you, but it was best that you knew. My master is determined to have you and your lands, and it was to that purpose that he remained in France—but we are to take you to his English stronghold to await his coming.’
‘Help me, please,’ Elona begged. ‘My father’s lands belong to me now and I will arrange to make you rich if you help me.’
Jedro looked at her, clearly considering her words, but then voices were heard and three other men came through the trees.
‘Can she walk?’ one of them demanded. ‘If not, I’ll put her over my shoulder.’
‘I can walk,’ Elona said proudly. She rose with Jedro’s help, clutching on to his arm as her head swam for a moment. ‘Remember,’ she whispered to him as they followed the others towards the clearing where the horses were being held. ‘Help me to escape and get to Banewulf and I shall reward you richly.’
Jedro nodded at her, his crafty mind at work once more.
‘Trust me, lady,’ he told her. ‘Make no trouble and when it is time I shall do what I can.’
Elona inclined her head. She was not sure that he was trustworthy, but for the moment she had no choice but to do as she was told and hope…but would Stefan come after her? Why should he bother? She had certainly given him no smiles of late. Why should he not simply abandon her to her fate? And yet somehow she did not believe that. Stefan would consider it his duty to find her and fetch her back.
She closed her eyes. Her jaw hurt where the other brute had hit her and she felt unwell, her chest tight with misery. Her beloved father was dead and she was Baron Danewold’s prisoner.
Elona felt the despair wash over her in a great wave. Oh, why, why had she not listened to Stefan and stayed safe within the camp? She had been so foolish, so wilful, and now she was punished.
‘Why could the foolish wench not stay safe within the camp?’ Stefan demanded angrily of her squire. ‘And why were you not watching over her, Dickon?’
‘Forgive me, my lord. I turned my back only for a few moments and she had gone. If anything has happened to her, it will be my fault.’
‘No, no.’ Stefan sighed as he saw the youth’s look of guilt. ‘You must not blame yourself. We shall search for her; it will be but one more delay. This journey seems as if it was meant to be nothing but delay—with all these accidents anyone would think someone did not want us to reach Banewulf…’
Stefan knew well enough whose fault it was that Elona had disobeyed him and strayed into the woods. He had been harsh to her and her pride had reacted to his scolding. He had let his temper rule him too long, but he had been suffering from indecision and was afraid of speaking to Elona lest his feelings show through. He knew that she was special, meant something special to him, made him feel special in a way no other woman had or could again.
The challenge and then his arrest, his own feelings of guilt because of the death of Robert de Champagnier, his uncertainty, had combined to blacken his mood. Elona was the woman he would have to wife if he were free to take her—but she was intended to be Alain’s bride.
Therein was the sting. How could he steal his brother’s bride? How could he betray the trust his stepmother had placed in him by asking him to bring Elona to Banewulf—and yet how could he stand aside and see her wed another?
When he looked at her, he felt desire course through him such as he had never experienced for any other woman. And there were other feelings, stronger, deeper than he had experienced before for a woman, feelings he did not entirely understand. Was it possible that this tenderness he felt when he saw Elona’s uncertainty, the hurt shadowing her lovely eyes, was the emotion people called love? He had not believed in romantic love, but now he had begun to change his mind.
It was this that had caused his black mood to linger longer than it ought, preventing him from speaking to Elona, telling her what was in his heart. He had no right to press his suit—and yet, now that she was lost, he knew that he would not be able to bear it if he never saw her again.
Once again he cursed the wasted hours they had spent searching the forest, and himself for speaking so harshly to her that she had deliberately defied him. If the worst happened, he would al
ways blame himself.
Elona felt so weary she wished she could sleep for a week. They had been travelling for days, riding hard, she behind her self-appointed protector, forced to hold on to him for fear of falling as her weariness grew by the hour.
‘Shall we never be there?’ she asked as at last they stopped for rest and food. ‘How much further must we go? I am too tired to go on.’
‘Tomorrow we shall reach my master’s stronghold,’ Jedro told her. ‘We are making camp now. You will be able to sleep for a while.’
Elona was too weary to do more than nod her head. Perhaps she would sleep that night, though for most nights on her journey she had lain awake, tossing restlessly on the blanket she had been given, the ground hard beneath her. These men travelled light and there was no pavilion to give her comfort and protect her from the elements, and the nights were cold, especially as they travelled further to the north.
Each day she had hoped for rescue, but it had not come. Her captors had hardly stopped in their haste to get her to their master, who had promised to pay them handsomely in gold for their trouble. Stefan’s men had moved far more slowly so that the cumbersome baggage wagons were never too far behind. She understood that that was for her sake. Alone, without the comfort of the ladies to consider, they could obviously travel much faster. Perhaps they would catch up with her captors before they reached Danewold’s stronghold.
How long would it have taken Stefan to discover that she was not simply lost in the woods? Would he have found the piece of torn veiling she had managed to leave for him? Would he know that Danewold’s men had captured her—and would he come after her?
That was the question that haunted her. Would Stefan put himself to the trouble of pursuing Danewold’s men?
Surely if he wanted to recover her, he would have made his move long before this? As each day passed without the pursuit she hoped for, Elona’s hopes began to fade. Perhaps, after all, Stefan did not consider it worth his while to rescue her?
She supposed in a way that she was lucky that Jedro seemed to have taken her under his wing. Though a sly creature, he was better than most of the rough soldiers who formed her guard. She was not afraid of Jedro, though she did not trust him. He had told her it was impossible for her to escape and that it would be better to try and ransom herself from Baron Danewold.
‘For if you ran away we should pursue you, lady,’ Jedro told her. ‘And then others might take it upon themselves to be your jailer—and I cannot answer for what might happen then.’
Elona had suppressed a shudder. From the evil leer in some of the men’s eyes as they looked at her, she knew that it was only fear of their lord’s anger that kept them from having their way with her—that, and the fact that Jedro had taken it upon himself to be her guardian. She was most afraid of Boris, who had hit her so hard that she was knocked senseless, though she did her best to hide it, staring at him coldly whenever they met.
However, he had kept his distance during their journey. She thought that Boris seemed almost to fear the crafty Jedro, though he was the smaller man and not as powerful. Indeed, all the men seemed to give him respect, and she suspected that the easy manner he showed to her was perhaps a mask to cover a different nature.
She knew that she walked a knife-edge, for these were not cultured knights who lived by a code of honour, and, if challenged, their baser natures might hold sway. Somehow she must live through this nightmare until all hope was gone.
Elona’s skin was beginning to itch; she had been given only enough water to drink and none at all for washing. Nor could she have washed her body, had the water been given her, for she was never alone. Even when they rested for a few hours at night, someone stood watch over her.
Her physical discomfort was as nothing to the turmoil of her mind. Besides the constant grief for her father, the hurt of knowing that she would never see him again, was the realisation of her own folly in disobeying Stefan.
He was constantly in her thoughts; her hopes of seeing him kept alive by her determination not to give in to the fear that would otherwise overwhelm her. She was well aware of the fate that awaited her at Baron Danewold’s stronghold, for she was her father’s only heir and his lands were now hers. The Baron was not the only man who would seize her and her lands for himself if he could; others would also see her as a rich prize, and it was clear that she must marry or be for ever vulnerable, prey to any lawless warlord who chanced upon her.
Elona wept silent, bitter tears as she lay upon the hard ground that night. They had been upon the road so many days and yet Stefan’s men had not caught up with them. Surely they must have done so if he had intended to pursue them? If he did not care enough to follow her…but she would not give in! She would rather die than be wife to a man like Baron Danewold.
‘You must ride for Banewulf,’ Stefan had told Dickon once it was clear what had happened to Elona. A piece of torn veiling had been discovered and there were signs of men and horses having been in the woods. ‘Tell my father that Danewold’s men have stolen Elona and that we are setting out in pursuit immediately.’
He had hoped at first that he might catch up to them before too many hours had passed, but Elona’s captors had had several hours’ start on them, hours that Stefan bitterly regretted having wasted. At first he had believed she had merely got lost in the woods, not thinking that Danewold’s men would have continued to follow them all this time.
He cursed himself for the lost hours, for no matter how hard he pushed himself and his men, those they pursued were always ahead, seeming to know the wild countryside through which they travelled far better than he or his own people could.
He believed that they would be heading for Danewold’s stronghold and his fear was that he would not catch up with them in time, a fear that gnawed at his stomach like a hungry rat, giving him no peace. The news had reached him at court of John de Barre’s death, but he had not told Elona; he did not wish to spoil her pleasure in the entertainment offered her there. Time enough for that when they reached Banewulf.
He was afraid for Elona, knowing as he did that Danewold would consider himself safe from retribution. The Baron must believe that, with her father dead, he had nothing to fear.
By heaven! If that rogue laid a hand on her, he would die for it. A red mist of rage possessed Stefan as he rode. Danewold would think himself secure in his northern stronghold, but he had reckoned without Stefan, and, if Dickon had reached Banewulf safely, the men garrisoned there. Combined, they would make a considerable force that few could stand against.
If Elona had been harmed—or dishonoured, perish the thought! It was too painful to contemplate. The thought of her innocence being taken from her by that vile rogue was unbearable. If that had happened, Stefan would show no mercy. He would strike down every last one of the devils who had stolen her if it cost him his life.
For what would his life be to him if harm had come to her?
Stefan faced the fact of his love at last. Elona meant more to him that he could ever have dreamed. Her loveliness, her innocence, her spirit were all qualities he prized in her. And there had been times when she looked at him, when she clung to him, as if needing his strength, when he had believed she felt something for him.
The agony of loss was strong in him as he pushed himself and his men even harder. They could not be far behind now. If their luck held, they would catch up with Danewold’s men that night.
Suddenly his horse stumbled, throwing Stefan forward. Such was the speed at which he had been travelling that neither he nor his mount had had time to realise that the ground gave way suddenly to a steep incline. He fought to retain his balance, but could not hold on and was thrown over the horse’s head, striking his own against the ground as he fell.
They were riding into Baron Danewold’s stronghold. Elona shivered in the chill wind that whipped her long hair about her face, but as much from fear as from the cold. She had hoped, longed, for rescue, but nothing had happened to stop her being b
rought to this place and now it was too late. She sensed that it would take a small army to breach the defences of these stout walls—and who would bother to send an army to rescue her? If Stefan had not cared enough to follow her, no one else would take the trouble to save her.
She was but one woman, insignificant and of no political importance. Had her father or brother lived…but she had no one to care what became of her. Clearly Stefan had not thought it worthwhile to pursue her. Why should he? He had forbidden her to leave the camp and she had disobeyed him. He was probably relieved to be rid of her, thinking her a wilful child and not worth his trouble.
Her thoughts had grown gloomier as the days and hours passed and the crushing sense of loss, both of her father and of the man she loved, had weighed heavily upon her. But she would not give in tamely, she decided. No matter what the Baron threatened—what he did to her—she would not let him break her spirit. She would fight him to the last, and at the end she would die rather than submit.
Her head lifted proudly as Jedro reached up to help her dismount. She gave him a look of cold disdain for he had lied to her, promising to help her escape, but in truth he had guarded her too closely for her to have a chance of escaping on her own. She realised now why the other men showed him respect; he was as sly as a serpent and possibly just as dangerous.
‘Do not despair, lady,’ he said softly to her as she would have turned away. ‘It was my duty to bring you here, but perhaps all is not yet lost.’
‘You have the tongue of a serpent,’ she said and moved away. The fear was gripping at her insides, churning and eating at her as she saw the Baron with his steward. He had seen her and his triumph was evident in his evil leer.
‘So you are here at last, lady,’ he said as he came towards her. ‘I have anticipated your coming and am eager for our wedding.’
