Angie Arms - Flames series 04

by The Strongest Flames

  Marcus remounted and studied Halvor for a moment. “We don’t have time to get the others. The women have enemies in front and behind them.”

  Halvor cast a quick glance to Jillian.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. She did look better today with color back in her cheeks and a bounce to her step that indicated she was recovering.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Alena stared at the footprint in the mud. The rain began earlier, making it difficult to follow behind the quickly moving army. She did not consider their way would not be easily followed, but with the ever increasing fall of chilling rain, the marks were being washed away, and now she had one footprint to make a decision on. They may have gone up the hill, or down. Alena started up the hill, looking for any trace, any skid, and the same down, but there was nothing. Even with the rain, she did not understand what happened to the trail. Going up a hill, the horse’s hooves would dig in deeper, going down they would be likely to drag a back leg, to keep their momentum slow. Yet, there was nothing.

  An army could not have vanished into thin air.

  “Does anyone know what lays either way,” she finally asked, rejoining the small group of women. What a group they were in their men’s attire and armed to the teeth. Even the youngest, Rowena, probably about eight years old, had a single balled mace strapped to her back, a sling shot, and several spiked balls to be shot from it, in a pouch tied at her waist, along with a dagger. They armed all the little ones thus. They would stay out of the fight, unless they saw they were absolutely needed, and even then they would keep their distance. The daggers were there last resort, their last line of defense, before someone laid their hands on them.

  As Alena waited, hoping one of them knew the answer to her question, she couldn’t help but feel the fear resting on her shoulders. She should have come alone. She did not care she would face an army alone, but she did care she had the safety of all these people resting on her shoulders. How did commanders do their job, knowing men would die, fathers would never return home, and husbands would never hold their wives again?

  The air shifted. She felt it on the back of her neck. Her eyes darted to the surrounding foliage, and suddenly realized she made a foolish error. The woods here was thick, close to the road, and an enemy could easily be concealed in its thickness. A flash from her left started her turning that way, only to have a figure rush at her from the right. Chaos ensued. “Run!” she yelled, as a body slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. She was the only one off her horse, so it was their only chance, to turn and ride away. Yet, they did not listen. As she rolled away from her attacker, pulling her sword, she saw the others leaping from their horses, pulling their own weapons.

  Alena could only fight after that. She brought down two within moments, but they kept coming. Steel echoed off steel, and cries echoed with the rain dripping from the leaves, as it continued to fall. By the time the last man fell, Alena was exhausted. Her arms were weighted down from wielding the sword, and the massive effort it took to slice into the attacking army. It was an ambush, and she led them right into it.

  As she looked from the face of one woman to the other, she saw the same fatigue lining their eyes, their exhaustion in their panting breaths, but there was not one face missing. They came through the attack unscathed. Then the chatter began. The little girls started, bragging about their skill with their slingshots, and arguing which one of the men they took down. Then the older women began, and Alena could not believe these cackling hens defeated an army, as they carried on about their skills, with some arguments over whose blade or blow took down this man or that. They went so far as to begin going through the bodies, pointing to wounds, and arguing who was best. If her heart was not still madly hammering within her chest, she might find humor, but instead she felt she was close to vomiting. She slid her sword back in its sheath, and placed her hands on her hips, drawing in great gulps of air. She thought they would all die, and it would be all her fault.

  “Lord Garrick,” the boy’s frantic voice swung Garrick around to find Will standing at the entrance to the armory. His eyes looked frantic, his breathing labored.

  “What has happened?” Garrick asked, knowing Will should be at Kinsey where his wife was.

  “An army came and took the Countess,” he said hastily. The boy stood erect before him, his head high, his hands clasped behind his back. Garrick wondered if he knew he looked like his father when he stood in such a manner.

  Garrick immediately moved toward the door. “What army?” Garrick asked, in his mind he knew there were any number of men who would like to bring him to his knees. Many tried, and Ryann was now a part of that danger.

  “I do not know. I saw which way they went.”

  “When was this?” Garrick asked, flinging the door open and strolling out into the drizzle of the day. “Get Lord Damien,” Garrick ordered to a passing servant.

  “Yesterday.” The kid jogged beside Garrick’s fast stride, as it carried him to the stable. “Malik and Gold,” Garrick ordered, as soon as they crossed into the dim light of the stable.

  “Grab a saddle,” Garrick ordered, going to the tack room and grabbing his. By the time he made it to the aisle, Malik was tied, and the stable hand was bringing Gold out. “You’re going with me and will show me where they went.”

  Garrick saw the fatigue flash in the boy’s eyes. He rode hard after a trying ordeal. But the boy had strength in his blood, for he nodded and went to work, with the help of several other stable hands, the two horses were quickly led from the stable.

  “Ryann was taken,” Garrick called, as Damien rounded the corner of the Manor. By the time Damien reached him, Garrick was in the saddle and Will expertly swung onto Gold. Garrick felt a sense of pride in the boy, knowing his father would too. “I will send word if you are needed.” Then Garrick laid his heels to Malik and the horse shot from the courtyard.

  Malik was up for the challenge, as always. The road soon grew dark, but Garrick pushed them on. Gold was not used to such a grueling pace, but he was Malik’s offspring, so Garrick knew this would prove if Malik’s bloodline was strong. Long into the night Garrick travelled the familiar road. Villages fed over into farmland, then back into villages as they moved. Then the flicker of a campfire. Without a word Garrick slid from his saddle and handed the reins to Will. He quickly and quietly moved toward it,

  The guard was ill placed, with the fire behind her. With her back to him, he surprised her, his arms sliding around her, immobilizing her, while he placed his hand over her mouth. He did not waste time as he moved among the small group lying about the fire.

  Alena. The woman came quickly up from her blanket, her sword in her hand. She learned some lessons well, others, like the placement of guards, not so much. “Where’s Ryann?” Garrick demanded, as he pushed the woman he held away from him.

  “I don’t know,” Alena said, quickly sheathing her sword, and moved toward him.

  “Will, come on in,” Garrick called to the boy, still waiting with the horses.

  “We lost them closer toward Kinsey. We tried to go after her, but were ambushed. I decided to come get you.”

  The sound of the approaching horses stopped Alena. “It is Will. He came to Scotts Manor,” Garrick explained, just as the horses came into view.

  “He made it all the way to Scotts Manor and all the way back here?” she asked, the sound of her voice was incredulous the kid could accomplish such a feat.

  “He did,” Garrick replied, absentmindedly. “Go tie them with the rest of the horses, then try to get you some rest,” Garrick ordered the boy. Without a word Garrick moved in the opposite direction, out onto the road, with Alena falling into step beside him.

  “What happened?” he finally asked, after they were a short distance from the camp that was quickly settling back down for the remainder of the night.

  “I think they killed every man that was there. They raped Carling. He threatened to rape some of the other ones if Ryann did n
ot go with him.”

  “Who was it?” Garrick asked.

  “He did not give his name.” Alena fell quiet, and Garrick knew she had more to say. “He wants you dead Garrick. He only took Ryann because he wants to see you suffer before he kills you, by torturing your wife in front of you.”

  Garrick felt his heart drop to his feet. “Tomorrow, you will take me back to the place you were ambushed.” After a moment Garrick stopped walking and turned to her. “Did they hurt you Lena?”

  Alena shook her head. “No, I am okay.”

  He studied her rigid form in the darkness for a moment, before he turned and moved back to camp. Garrick did not try to sleep, but sent the women to lie down, in the morning he would send them to Scotts Manor, and Alena would take him to find Ryann.

  “To arms!” Garrick called the warning an instant before men swarmed the camp. They were like a pestilence of biblical proportions. The enemy must have been watching the camp. It was likely the women were followed after the ambush and they lay in wait, until Garrick arrived. The camp just settled back in not long before, when the men rushed from out of the bushes. Had they approached, Garrick would likely have warning, but the men were already there, hidden about the small camp.

  Alena was immediately at his side, swinging her sword like Garrick taught her. She was nearly as fast and nimble as Garrick, yet still there were too many.

  “Halt!” the voice called above the din of the battle. Garrick heard, but did not hesitate to continue the battle. “Now or this little one dies!”

  He felt Alena turn, and immediately her sword dropped to the ground. The battle was over, the men surrounding Garrick and Alena stepped back. Not ready to give up the fight, Garrick turned and saw a man standing with Halvor’s smallest sister in his arms, a knife pressed to her throat. Garrick hesitated. He was not a man who relinquished a fight. He was the man who fought against strong numbers, and out of sheer will and determination, was the victor. But now, with the girl’s brown eyes huge as she stared at Garrick, he knew he had no choice. The time was long passed that he would sacrifice a life for a victory. Slowly, he relaxed the hand holding his sword. He felt it slowly begin to slip from his grasp, and then it fell to the ground with a muffled clank.

  The man who stopped the fight moved toward Alena, and as he reached her, he flung the little girl away from him. In the same quick motion, he grabbed Alena, placing his arm around her neck, another on the side of her head. All it would take was one twist, and the woman’s neck would be broken.

  “The infamous bastard,” the man said, with an evil gleam in his eyes.

  “Are you the coward who took my wife?” Garrick asked, undaunted by the man who had the upper hand.

  The man smiled, “I am, such a fine piece of pussy too.”

  Garrick knew Marcus and Halvor made his army strong, because they could remain calm when Garrick was consumed with fury. There was no one to stop the sudden rage that took over Garrick at the thought this man forced himself on his wife. He lunged forward, drawing his dagger. Five men were on him, forcing him to the ground, and twisting his knife from his hand.

  “Watch yourself Garrick. I would like to say I would hate to snap this woman’s neck, but I find I like the sound of a good neck breaking.”

  “Let her go. You wanted me, and you have me,” he ground out. The men still held him down, flattening him to the ground, making it hard for him to draw breath.

  “Aaah, perhaps you are fond of this woman. A mistress perhaps?”

  The man pressed her head sideways, exposing an expanse of her neck. He ran a finger down it and further to one of her breasts, he cupped in his hand.

  “A woman this one. Tell me, which one would you like to see gutted first?”

  “Leave her alone you coward!”

  The man laughed, a genuine sound of merriment. “Tell me, what is your name?”

  The man’s voice took on a seductive quality as he asked the question of Alena.

  “Alena.”

  “Alena,” the man repeated. “Who does Garrick prefer, you or that little blond wife of his?”

  Garrick was amazed at the quick thinking and response the tall woman gave, he suspected in an effort to protect Ryann. “Me of course. Do you think a man such a Garrick could find pleasure with such a little child as that bitch wife of his?”

  Again the man laughed. “It makes sense now,” he finally said. “Come along then,” he said in a cheerful voice, that led Garrick to believe the evil this man was capable of, was just beginning. “We are going to have a lot of fun.”

  Garrick put up one final attempt at escape. It was a struggle that was short lived, as blackness swooped in on him.

  Chapter 17

  April 6, 1199 France Chalus-Chabrol

  Viscount Aimar’s forces were decimated. No one stood in the way of Richard and his gold, Mercadier thought bitterly. No one, except one small boy who shot the arrow into the King, from atop the castle’s puny walls. When Chalus-Chabrol fell, Mercadier found the boy, and took him before the King, knowing Richard would have the boy slain. He was furious when Richard not only let the boy go, but sent him away with 100 shillings. It did not matter that Richard’s army killed not only the boy’s father, but his two brothers as well. This was war, and there should be no mercy shown. Now that the King was dead, his mercy was at an end, and Mercadier would not only find the boy named Pierre, but Roland and his little whore too.

  The cowards were still hiding, but Mercadier knew he would find them, once he dealt with Pierre. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on the woman, and watch the knight come apart, as he did when Mercadier killed his last woman. He strolled into the tiny courtyard. One of his men had the boy, holding him by his shirt. The kid looked like he put up a fight, but Mercadier knew it was more likely the man holding him took it upon himself to lay fists to the boy.

  “I charge you with treason,” Mercadier said, reaching the boy’s side. He uncoiled the rope he carried in his hand, and slipped the noose around the boy’s neck. The boy appeared truly frightened, and Mercadier found some satisfaction in that, but still, there was no mercy for him.

  “King Richard has pardoned me,” the boy tried to argue.

  Mercadier cut any further argument off, by yanking on the end of the rope he held in his hand, and pulling him into the center of the courtyard. “Pierre Basile, you are guilty of treason against the high king of England, and will die accordingly.”

  Mercadier turned and pulled the boy behind him, up to the wall surrounding the keep. He called for two more ropes, and when they were brought, he tied one end securely around the boy’s hands, another at his feet. He easily lifted him to lay him on the ledge, and his men tied his hands and feet tightly, stretching him out. Mercadier tied the end of the noose himself before going back to the boy, using his knife, he cut his clothes from him.

  As soon as Mercadier cut into the boy’s skin, his bravery fled and he let out a blood curdling scream, and began to plead for his life.

  “We have to do something,” Emma insisted, standing beside Roland as they watched the chaos surrounding the tiny castle they called home for a short time. Roland looked down at her and saw desperation lighting up her eyes, his heart went out to her. When word came Richard’s army was on the move, Roland and Emma fled to the woods, next to the small keep. There they waited until they could make their escape, but once Pierre shot the King, they decided to wait. No punishment came to the boy, but the King developed an infection, so Roland decided to wait longer, for news of his recovery or death.

  King Richard was dead. The arrow Pierre shot into the King thirteen days before, finally killed him. Thirteen days, Roland couldn’t say he was heartbroken to hear the King suffered for thirteen days, fighting the infection that took his life. Roland’s only regret was the King had his mother by his side, and didn’t die alone, like he deserved.

  From their hiding place, they watched the decimation of the people they came to know. Emma begged him to allow her
to help them, for both of them to help them, but he stayed staunchly against giving up their hiding place. He saw the accusations on her face each time she looked at him. It was a look he grew used to on his children’s faces. He was disconcerted to find Emma’s brought on just as much guilt as his children’s.

  Now Mercadier found the boy. They watched him stretch Pierre out on the wall of the castle, as the handful who survived gathered at the foot of the wall, to see what would be done. Roland knew what would be done. The one man who helped defend the walls after the initial attack, already hung from the parapets, but Roland knew there would be more to Pierre’s death than a quick hanging.

  “You have to do something,” Emma demanded of him again, going as far as to stomp her foot to relay her agitation to him. “If you don’t I will.”

  “There’s an entire army Emma. He will kill you too.”

  “We have to do something.”

  “There is nothing.”

  “Something,” she insisted, her eyes angry, accusing him of being the coward he was.

  “Nothing,” he insisted, holding on to her when she began to turn away from him. He knew if he let her go, she would go to her bow and arrows, and try to take on an army that was large enough to defeat the army of France.

  Then Pierre screamed, a sound full of pain and agony. Emma froze, and she looked to the wall where the boy was stretched. The scream went on and on as Roland squinted to see what was being done. He made it out, just as Emma did. She blindly ran forward, toward the edge of the forest, and away from cover. Roland grabbed her just in time, tackling her, and driving her onto the ground. He covered her body with his, wrapping his arms around her, covering her head, hoping to block the sound of Pierre’s cries. He heard Emma’s muffled cries, and for a brief moment she fought against him, before finally lying still, curled beneath him. Roland raised his head and watched Mercadier’s knife slicing Pierre’s skin, heard the boy’s screams as Mercadier took a piece of the boy’s skin he worked loose, and began to peal it down the boy’s body. Roland witnessed people being flayed alive, but never a child, never someone he cared for.