by Amy Tolnitch
A glint of something in the trees caught her eye and she started to call to Piers.
Before she could, she watched in horror as he slid off his horse, landing in an awkward tangle on the ground. “No,” she cried, kicking Angel forward.
When they reached Piers, his face was pale. “Go, Giselle. Ride for Falcon’s Craig.”
“But, you are injured. I—”
“Go!” he roared. “Now!”
Mired in indecision, she looked up and her blood froze. A troop of men burst from the trees heading straight in her direction. “Oh, my God.”
“Go, Giselle. Give Angel his head.”
“I shall be back for you,” she swore, before wheeling Angel around and kicking him hard. “Run, boy,” she cried, too overwhelmed with fear to care that he burst into a gallop at her words, the ground rushing by at terrifying speed.
She glanced back to find her pursuers gaining on her, and wrapped a hand in Angel’s thick mane. “Come on, Angel. Run!”
They caught her before she gained hailing distance of Falcon’s Craig. Two men circled around in front of her, blocking Angel’s path, while another came up beside her. He shot her a cold smile.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “What did you do to my husband?”
The man plucked Angel’s reins from her hands. “Has the little nun developed feelings for a man so quickly?” He laughed but it was not a sound of mirth. “An unfortunate thing, that.”
“Let me go. I must seek help for Piers.”
“I think not, Lady Giselle.”
It dawned on her in deepening horror that he knew who she was.
She clenched her jaw. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“So many questions. So much spirit. The Bishop would be impressed.”
Dread gripped her in a harsh hold. “No.”
The man nodded to one of his companions, and in moments she found herself face down, tied in front of her kidnapper.
“Bring the beast,” the man ordered. “He’ll fetch a fine bit of coin.”
“Where are you taking me?” Giselle spat.
He slammed his hand against her cheek. “Shut up.”
Her stomach roiling, Giselle did as he bade as they headed into the forest.
Piers watched the men take Giselle, calling himself every bit a fool. He should have been more alert to their surroundings, but like a besotted simpkin, he’d been too caught up in his bride.
Fear for Giselle chilled his blood. The Bishop had to be behind this.
He had to get back to Falcon’s Craig and gather help. Pain lanced through him as he struggled to a sitting position. “At least the bastard’s aim was off,” he told his horse, who contentedly nibbled on grass nearby.
And the mail shirt he’d worn beneath his tunic had deflected much of the arrow’s bite.
He smiled grimly in the direction the men had headed. “You made a mistake when you did not stop to make sure your arrow struck true,” he swore.
Pushing the pain from his mind, he crawled onto his mount’s back. He kicked the horse into a gallop, gritting his teeth against the throbbing in his shoulder and praying he would not be too late to save Giselle.
Within minutes of being captured, the skies did as Piers had predicted and unleashed a torrent of rain. As she bounced along on her captor’s horse, Giselle took deep breaths and focused on not heaving out the contents of her stomach.
Rain quickly soaked through her bliaut, and her hair hung in sodden tangles, soon muddied by flecks ground up by the horse’s hooves.
Concern over Piers’s condition overwhelmed fear for herself. She’d not seen how badly he was injured, but she had seen enough to know he’d been struck by an arrow and was bleeding profusely.
Please, dear God, save him, she prayed over and over. I am the one who has provoked the Bishop’s wrath. Please do not make Piers pay for it.
Finally, Giselle felt the horse slow, and then mercifully stop. Someone jerked her off the animal, and she landed on her bottom on the muddy forest floor. She looked up at a cold, sharp-featured face.
“Can you build a fire?” the man grunted.
Dear heavens, was she to be subjected yet again to a criticism of her useful skills? she wondered, realizing the beginning of hysteria creeping into her mind. “No.”
He snorted in obvious disgust and looked at the man still mounted. “Useless wench. Don’t know what you want with her.”
She cut her gaze to the other man, who laughed. He was a stranger, but something in his gaze seemed familiar.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
“The Bishop ain’t goin’ to be happy about this,” the third man said.
“My brother does not need to know everything. And he will not learn of this.” He swung down from his horse and handed the reins to the man who’d tossed Giselle onto the ground. “Am I clear?”
Giselle looked around her, horror freezing her in place and at the same time demanding she run. She was in a dense, unfamiliar part of the forest. Trees pressed thickly in on them from all sides, and the skies were still gray though the rain had eased. She got to her knees and found a boot planted squarely in her chest, shoving her back down again.
“Oh, no,” the man said. He chuckled, and Giselle’s skin crawled. “You cannot outrun me.”
“Who are you?”
He sat on a nearby log and gave her a sly look. “I am called Donninc.”
“You are the Bishop of Ravenswood’s brother?”
Humor lit his gaze. “Half-brother. Thankfully, I do not resemble him.”
“Why … why are you doing this? My husband—”
“Is assuredly dead. Do not waste your thoughts on him.”
Giselle sucked in a breath. “No. You lie.”
“Do I?” He glanced over his shoulder at the other men tending the horses and starting a fire. “Hamon is an excellent archer. When he takes a shot, it’s a killing blow.”
“You bastard!”
He shrugged. “That I am. I am also the man who holds your fate in his hands.”
Giselle curled her hands into fists and glared at him. “What do you want? I have no coin.”
His laughter sent shivers down her spine. “I have plenty of coin.” He fixed her with a stare that made Giselle scoot backward.
One of the men shouted, and the anxious neigh of a horse sounded through the small clearing. When Giselle’s gaze snapped toward the sounds, she saw movement in the trees. For just an instant, she stared into round, yellowish eyes. Cai? Her heart leapt with hope.
The animal vanished.
“You have annoyed my brother most heartily with this claim upon Kindlemere.”
Giselle stuck out her chin. “He stole it from me.”
He appeared amused by her declaration. “He is most fond of the estate.”
“He shall not keep it.”
“Ah, but there I believe you are wrong, Giselle.”
Her name sounded disturbing on his tongue. “I can prove I am Annora St. Germain’s daughter.”
“You do not understand. You will never have the chance.”
Giselle’s heart beat faster.
“Aldrik instructed me to kill you, of course.” Donninc smiled. “But I cannot see the waste of so much beauty.”
“You are … possibly my uncle,” Giselle managed to get past her lips.
“I doubt Aldrik possesses the strength of seed to sire a child,” he said coldly. “And clearly, you do not favor him. I understand that you very much resemble your poor departed mother.”
“Who your brother ravished.” Giselle trembled with rage.
“A family tradition, it seems.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in. The moment they did, Giselle surged to her feet. “No.”
He merely lifted a brow. “ ’Tis your choice.”
“I will not submit to you.”
“Oh, you will,” he said as he stood. “Sooner or later. I can be very persuasive.”
S
he tried to run, but her limbs were so stiff Donninc easily caught her. “Let me go!” she shouted, beating against his shoulders.
Instead, he laughed. He dumped her on the ground once more. “I do hope you will not give me too much trouble.” He leaned over and stroked a finger down her cheek. “I would hate to mar that silken skin.”
Giselle’s stomach clenched with fear.
“If you have needs to see to, now is your opportunity.”
Her expression must have betrayed her intent. He wagged a finger at her. “I will give you a few feet of privacy. No more.”
As much as she wanted to curse him and refuse, her body’s demands would not wait. She slowly rose and headed toward the trees.
“After all, it’s nothing I will not see soon.”
She gritted her teeth and ignored him, accomplishing what she needed to as quickly as possible and returning to the clearing. As bad as the other men undoubtedly were, she held onto the faint hope Donninc would not forcibly take her in their presence. When she saw him watching her, she wasn’t so sure.
“Good girl. Do as you’re told and we will get along very well.” She flinched when he brushed his hand against her cheek.
“I will never do as you bid me. You waste your time.”
“Would you rather die?”
She glared at him and he chuckled. “I thought not,” he said.
He dragged her over to a tree and bound her hands behind her with a length of scratchy rope, securely fastening her to the trunk. Giselle closed her eyes and started to pray.
Chapter
XIV
Piers pounded into the bailey at Falcon’s Craig at the end of his endurance. His wound had long ago turned from a biting pain to one searing down his arm, he was drenched by the rain, and his head was swimming.
He rode up to the great hall.
Someone spotted him and shouts rang out, but Piers was too focused on remaining conscious to know who it was. Arms lifted him from the horse and carried him into the hall. Through bleary eyes, he spotted Cain.
“By the saints, what happened?” his brother shouted. “Hawis, fetch Amice!”
Piers gripped Cain’s tunic in his fist and took shallow breaths. “Giselle. The bastards got Giselle.”
“Who? The Bishop’s men?” Cain guessed.
“Do not know, but who else could it be? We have to go after her!”
Cain’s face darkened. “I shall. As soon as we see to you.”
Piers tried to tell him they could not wait, but he lost his battle with consciousness and closed his eyes.
Padruig was in the process of polishing his sword, an activity he found particularly soothing, when he heard Cai’s distinctive scratch at the door. When he opened it, the wolf bounded in, his ears up. He gave a short whuffing sound, and then howled.
Puzzled, Padruig smoothed his hand over Cai’s fur, looking for an injury.
Cai batted him on the arm with a paw and whuffed again.
“What is it, boy?”
The wolf ran to the door and then back to Padruig, before sitting on his haunches and tilting his head.
“Is someone out there?” Padruig picked up his sword and peered out the door, but saw nothing but a red squirrel scampering up a tree.
Cai gave what sounded suspiciously like a snort of disgust and ran to the upper level of Padruig’s home.
More and more perplexed, Padruig heard the wolf rummaging through things. When Cai ran down the stairs, understanding dawned. He carried a piece of Giselle’s wimple in his teeth. The wolf set it down at Padruig’s feet and whuffed again.
“Giselle is in trouble.”
Cai trotted to the door and looked back.
“Aye, I ken.” Grimly, Padruig fastened on his sword and packed on a few daggers just in case. “Lead on,” he told the wolf.
Nose to the ground, Cai led him into the forest.
As afternoon shaded into night, Giselle sat on the wet ground trying not to shiver and blanking her face of the mix of anger and fear pressing down on her. Earlier, she’d refused the scraps of dried meat one of the men had tossed her way and the offer of a skin of ale from a smirking Donninc. Her belly cramped with hunger, and her mouth was dry as sun-baked sand, but she could not bring herself to accept a thing from her captors.
Shadows lengthened while the men drank from their skins, conversing in low tones. From time to time, one of them would gaze her way. The speculative anticipation in their eyes suffused her body in cold dread. Donninc was the worst, his smug expression telling her he fully expected her to yield to him, whether by choice or by force.
Filthy whoreson, she thought, momentarily shocked at her choice of words, even unspoken. The description fit, however. Dear Lord, the man could be her uncle, and he didn’t care at all.
Taking advantage of the fact she was far enough from the fire to be cloaked in shadows, she worked at freeing her hands, tugging at the ropes until her wrists ached. Still she worked, praying for a small slip, something to help her get free and run once the men fell asleep.
“Are you cold, Giselle?” Donninc called over.
She glared at him. “Nay.”
He laughed. “If you would like to move closer to the fire, I am sure we can make some … arrangement.”
Share his blankets, he meant. “I would rather perish from cold,” she said clearly. And meant it.
Not so much as a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. It was as if the man was crafted of cool steel, brushing off her insults and accusations as of too little importance to matter.
“Would have thought the wench learned her place in that abbey,” one of Donninc’s companions commented. Giselle had privately named him The Frog. His features were thick and coarse, his lips wide and full, his cunning eyes large and slightly protruding.
“Aldrik clearly allowed the Abbess to coddle her overmuch,” Donninc responded.
Giselle wanted to laugh aloud. Coddle? If life in the service of the Abbess amounted to coddling, she would hate to … Her thought process halted when Donninc caught her gaze. She swallowed as best she could and resumed tugging at the ropes.
“Expect you’ll take care the wench learns otherwise,” the third man said slyly. Hatchet, she had named him, with his sharp, thin face and narrow, flat gaze. Next to Donninc, he scared her the most, eyeing her with blatant lust.
“I shall enjoy it,” Donninc told him and smiled at Giselle.
The rope slipped a tiny bit, and she swallowed the denial she wanted to shout. The last thing she needed was to provoke him enough that he came over and noticed what she was doing. Between the pain in her wrists and the slippery feel of the rope, she was pretty sure he would see her blood on the rope if he cared to look. Instead, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, all the while working on loosening her bonds and listening to the men, waiting for them to sleep.
In the firelight, she’d seen Donninc’s dagger. The man was so arrogant he left it sitting on a rock next to the fire.
She wanted that knife with a ferocity that shocked her. Not that she would know what to do with it. The very fact she could envision herself wielding it at all was horrifying enough.
Forgive me, Lord, she silently prayed. I know not what is becoming of me. All I do know is that I cannot become that man’s … Her mind shied away from the word but it rang in her skull all the same. Whore. That was what he intended, he’d made no secret of it.
Lord, please aid me, she prayed and nearly gasped when she felt a section of the rope slip free. She stilled, listening closely to the sounds around her, peering toward the men under half-closed eyelids.
Two bundled shapes lay next to the fire. Snores rumbled from the men. Where was the third? she wondered, biting her lip. And which one was he?
Remaining still, she waited and watched until a shape lumbered back into the clearing. Hatchet. She felt his gaze upon her and barely suppressed a whimper of trepidation. The sound of boots shuffling though wet leaves came to her ears.
“You are not asleep,” his voice whispered next to her ear.
Her eyes flashed open to find his only inches away. She pressed her back against the tree bark. “Stay away from me.”
“And let Donninc sample the goods first?” He smiled, revealing a mouth of rotten and broken teeth. The stench of his breath made her gag. “I am thinking I’ll break you in first.”
She spit in his face.
In an instant, his arm was around her neck, cutting off her breath. “Bitch,” he said softly. “You’ll pay for that.” He ran a hand down the front of her bliaut and twisted her nipple through the fabric. “Aye, you’ll pay.”
Giselle pulled at the ropes with all her strength. Lord, aid me, please aid me, she said to herself over and over. And then it happened.
Hatchet was so absorbed with pushing up her skirts he never noticed she was free. Drawing a deep breath, she shut away all thoughts but survival and grabbed his dagger from his belt.
His last expression before she plunged it into his throat was astonishment.
Gasping for air, Giselle pushed him off her, and ran.
Cain paced the hall while Amice and Hawis tended Piers’s wound. Though his brother had yet to wake, the wound did not appear as bad as they’d feared, Piers’s mail preventing the arrow head from going in all way. “Thank God he had the sense to wear mail,” Cain said.
“I do display a bit of sense on occasion,” Piers remarked in a dry tone.
Relief thudded through Cain at the sound of his brother’s voice.
“Should have taken a couple of the men too,” Gifford told him sternly.
Piers’s face darkened. “Aye, I know.”
Cain watched as Amice pressed a poultice to Piers’s chest and bound it into place with a length of linen. Piers was pale, but he pushed himself into a sitting position. “Give me some of that ale,” he told Gifford.
For once, their uncle relinquished his jug without protest.
“Where were you when you were attacked?” Cain asked him.
“About two or three leagues east of the castle.” He moved again and winced, stopping to take a drink. “I will show you.”
