Captive

by Louisa Trent

  A chill ran down Sage's spine. Daughters of dead chieftains were known to take up the leadership banner in times of warfare. And Aeschine had the heart of a warrior-woman...

  Uncrossing his arms, Sage pulled his captive against his side. “Be silent."

  “This rat turd does not intimidate me."

  “Be still!” Aeschine would get them both killed yet.

  He might have the authority, but DuFont had the might, and accidents were known to happen. The henchman toyed with them. He would bluster and prance and posture to save face, and then he would let them go. As long as DuFont was given no provocation to strike, they would leave the camp unharmed.

  The henchman turned to Sage. “My, my. She is a feisty slut, I grant you that. Look at those flashing blue eyes! I have a yen of a sudden for a bit of diversion. Your cousin never minded sharing, do you?"

  Sage shrugged, continuing his uncaring stance. “Whom the lady beds is her prerogative. She is but bait to me."

  “Ever the man of principles is our Geoffrey de Sage! Is there no end to your scruples?” His expression turned cunning. “I recognize this fur cape! You were the envy of all the nobleman at court when Rufus presented the cape to you as a gift. Since when are prisoners allowed to wear the gift of a king?"

  Sage made no reply.

  “I doubt you would let just any prisoner wear this expensive, fur lined cape, a gift of the King. Is it your custom to show favoritism to certain prisoners this way?"

  Sage said naught.

  “You may show partiality to certain prisoners, but I do not.” The henchman parted the cape down the front.

  Aeschine's wild gaze sought his. Help me, her eyes pleaded. Though no sound escaped her lips.

  Sage held himself steady. “Lady Aeschine, have you decided yet who you will service?"

  “Better the devil I know,” the lady said, voice flat.

  “There. You have your answer, DuFont. The lady does not welcome your advances."

  “So what? Some women like persuasion."

  “Persuade?” The lady glowered as she rallied. No flatness dulled her tone now. “This is my answer to your persuasion.” Aeschine spat full in DuFont's face.

  The henchman's coloring went from radish-red to a mottled shade of turnip-purple. “You will pay for your folly, whore."

  “I do believe the lady has refused your courtship.” Sage scanned the positioning of DuFont's bivouac.

  He could take out ten soldiers. Possibly ten and two, before he was mortally wounded. The diversion he created would give Aeschine a chance to flee into the trees.

  With a Gallic sigh of acceptance, Sage arched his jaw to the sky.

  The warmth of the sun felt good. He felt good. Better than he had felt in a long time.

  After one last lingering look at Aeschine, Sage lunged for the henchman's throat.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The underside of DuFont's neck wobbled like a turkey's wattle as it met the sharp point of the dagger. Slowly but steadily, Sage pressed against the henchman's windpipe. “Call off your animals,” he said softly.

  The henchman's vassals continued to close ranks.

  “Say the words, or I end you here and now,” Sage snarled.

  The man on the ground croaked, “You are outnumbered. Are you ready to die this day?"

  “This day and every day. Life is a much overrated commodity.” Sage followed the direction of the lackey's beady eyes. “Do not look to your vassals to save you. One thing I learned from the Infidel is how to make a swift kill. You will meet your Maker a few gasps before me."

  “You are mad!"

  “The truth is out,” Sage said in mock horror.

  “The King will be interested in hearing this turning of the worm, especially if the little maggot is eating away at your mind."

  “DuFont, you tell the King whatever you please. My wife is dead. I have no sons. I lost much of my honor when I fought the Infidels. The remainder I lost when I took Aeschine my captive. My soul is sick. Little tempts me to breathe, save finding out all those responsible for my wife's murder.” Sage pushed the blade deeper.

  DuFont's eyes bugged. “You have already found her."

  “A lass?"

  “A spy!"

  “Aeschine is no spy."

  The henchman's breath gurgled. “By whose words? Her own? All whores lie. And you lie to yourself too if you believe yourself capable of killing a man in cold blood."

  “Cold blood? My blood boils. I long to see your blood spill onto the ground. But, pray, what will that prove?"

  Sage stuck the dirk deeper to punctuate his query. “I think you already know I am the better killer, for I do not let my emotions get in the way as you do. Killing does not pleasure me. N'est pas? I kill only to survive. And that is why I make the better executioner. Now, this lady is in my guardianship, and I defend her unto death."

  DuFont raged, “A pox on your guardianship! A curse on your responsibility and your damned sense of duty too. You are not so pure, my friend. This slut helped murder your wife and you itch for her anyway!"

  Sage turned to his captive. “You will leave us now, Aeschine. Await me where my destrier is tied."

  “Nay!"

  DuFont's laughter rumbled under the tip of the blade. “It appears you need to assert more control over your captive, Sage. Her defiance does not speak well for your authority. And your softness toward her will not please Rufus."

  “Keep talking, you swill-eating pig, and you will give me the very reason I need to slice a wedge from your throat."

  “Lord Geoffrey de Sage, I am your property,” a feminine voice said. “I give you my allegiance."

  Turning, Sage saw that Aeschine had dropped to her knees on the ground, humbling herself. Not to save her own life, but to save his! Should he laugh or cry?

  “I do own you. I am gladdened you have come to realize it. Now get up off your knees.” Sage's attention snapped back to the man under his blade. “I do not trust William Rufus any more than he trusts me. I find his methods as barbarous as the Turks I have just finished fighting. But the Crown has my support. You may tell the King I said so when he asks. And as for you, DuFont, you would vilify your own mother to curry favor for yourself. But I am beyond caring, and for that reason alone, I am a dangerous man."

  He spoke into the henchman's ear: “If so much as the foul breath of one of your men touches my woman, this ground runs red with your blood.” For emphasis, Sage deepened the pressure. Then, lifted the blade.

  “Did you know that I once saved the King's life?” Sage asked conversationally, as the henchman gasped for air. “'Twas when we were boys. I jumped between him and an assassin. I have never asked for a favor in return, but I am asking for a boon now."

  “The Scottish whore, I presume?” DuFont wheezed.

  “Exactly. Call off your guards, henchman. Let us go. You have nothing to win here and everything to lose."

  “You saved the King's life?"

  “Sweet, is it not?"

  DuFont raised his hand, a signal for his vassals to retreat. “Take the whore and go."

  Sage's rose to his feet and bowed in mock salute. “Until we meet again, DuFont."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The motte-and-bailey crouched on raised rock, its blackened foundation defiling the vegetation, the air ripe with the stench of its decay. The fortress dominated the landscape as far as the eye could see, casting the surroundings into gloomy shadow. And as nothing thrives for very long in permanent darkness, the once green land lay barren.

  Sage wished he had some platitude to offer Aeschine. Unfortunately, no words would smooth over what years of destruction had wrought. Not a blade of grass grew on the craggy hillocks. The few remaining trees grew sparse. Twisted. The bark stripped from their trunks. The marching of warring armies had left the ground deeply pitted, trodden to mud. The runoff of rain had gorged even greater ruts into the packed mud, deepening the wounds of war. No sheep would graze here for years to come. />
  Shuddering, Sage wrapped an arm around Aeschine as a great gust of cold wind came up from out of nowhere and whipped across the battered terrain. If this place filled him with dread, what would it do to a female captive?

  The fortress was bloody dark, bloody cold, too bloody much like him. The sun would never find its way to this desolate wasteland! Aeschine was meant for warm days of sunshine and laughter. How would she tolerate living in a place that had neither?

  Lifting aside a corner of the fur-lined hood, he studied his captive's face as she rode in front of him on his steed. “Are you cold?"

  Aeschine shrugged and said nothing.

  His captive kept everything locked away inside. Men were expected to be stoical. Self-contained. Not females! The heap of barren rocks would make the most stalwart of men wince, and yet her features remained composed.

  He tucked the folds of his fur-lined cloak around her slender body, then kneed his mount towards the moat: It was going on dark, and after riding hard for two days, he would have his tired captive safely abed for the night.

  He said gruffly, “I am sorry for having to bring you here."

  “This is my life and I accept it."

  “Aeschine..."

  “Nay! Pray, say no more. ‘Tis really not so bad. Nothing will immediately improve the dreariness of the place, but when common folk learn they need not fear the new overlord, they will move back to Cheviot Hills and once again plow these razed fields. However, we have much to accomplish before that happens."

  We?

  Aeschine spoke like his helpmate, not his captive!

  “Do not despair, milord, the sun will shine here soon. And look, there is a lovely view across the moors all the way to Scotland. Not to worry over me pining away. Work is the best antidote for homesickness. And I intend to keep busy. I will not look back at what once was; I intend only to look forward."

  Aeschine's cheerful outlook humbled him. “But there is no grass..."

  “Och! Grass grows fast. So do trees. If you are just, and the borderlands are kept free of conflict, this hillside will spring to life. These ruts in the dirt will disappear under a spread of wildflowers and clover.” She nodded, everything decided. “Miniature sheep are well-suited for this place."

  He found himself smiling. Damnable sheep! Thought she of nothing else?

  Aeschine turned to him. “You are a warrior..."

  “Like yourself, Aeschine, I am what the times have made me. But after I deal with LaTourne, I intend to kill no more."

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “There is always a next time, always a new reason. You stood up to DuFont and his men. You would have killed them."

  “I must protect what I own,” he explained. “But I made a vow on my wife's grave to put aside my sword in favor of peace. Will you work with me or against me in this?"

  “With you, of course,” she said immediately. “Sheep do not breed well to the clang of broadswords.” She laughed. “Neither do humans."

  Would she never give up this crazed dream of hers?

  The guard shouted down on them. “The gate is up, milord. Come ahead.” And he was prevented from saying more.

  As they started forward over the drawbridge, the putrid smell of fouled water started Aeschine to gagging.

  He pulled the corner of his cloak over her nose. “At first light, I will set my men to unclogging the River Cess Pool."

  They crossed the drawbridge and entered a vision suitable for one of his nightmares.

  The smells of vomit and unwashed bodies filled his nostrils, the stench worse than a latrine. Slatternly women, in various states of undress, roamed the courtyard. The females were prostitutes of the lowest kind. The men chasing them, throwing them to the ground and mounting them amidst raucous laughter and screams and white quivering heaps of flesh, were not men of his choosing: With his appointment as borderland overlord, he had inherited them along with the keep.

  Cursing under his breath, Sage turned Aeschine's face into his shoulder as a high-pitched scream rent the air. “You are not to look!"

  In the darkened archway of the stables, four men pressed a naked woman to the ground. One lout stretched her hands above her head. Another two crouched at her feet, each holding a leg. A fourth rammed between her bloodied thighs. When that man had finished, the next man in the long line took his place. After making a crude gesture, the woman was turned to her belly and spread-eagled in the dirt. The rapist went into her buttocks, the sodomy hard and rough. The woman gave an agonized scream...

  Sage had seen and heard enough.

  And so had Aeschine.

  “Oh, my God, oh my God,” she croaked. “That woman. That poor woman."

  Sage pulled his sword. “Wait here,” he growled and jumped to the ground. “And this time, you are to keep your eyes closed."

  * * * *

  Sage did what he could for the assaulted prostitute, which had not been nearly enough. On his way back to Aeschine, a bearded man jumped out of the shadows and waylaid him.

  “John Tuttrell, you slimy eel,” Sage shouted upon seeing the fastidiously attired lout. “I am delighted to see you again."

  John elbowed Sage's flat gut, laughing uproariously at his friend's intake of breath. “Flatulent son of a sow! And where else would I be but here? Are you growing so long in the tooth that you do not recall sending me to this miserable outpost to await your arrival?"

  “It seems a lifetime ago that I gave that directive. What goes on here?"

  “Looks like an orgy to me.” John stroked his shallow chest. “Well, do not look at me with fire in your eyes! You said no whippings during your absence. That did tie my hands somewhat."

  “The old ways did tend to produce a more speedy resolution of problems,” Sage replied dryly.

  “How did your ... ahem ... discussion go with your kinsman?"

  “There was no discussion. My cousin escaped me again."

  “And the lady you left behind in the courtyard? Is she your cousin's espoused?"

  “She is my cousin's betrothed,” Sage quickly corrected. “And now my leman. The King's henchman, DuFont caught up with us outside the cave where I held Aeschine of Scotland captive. The henchman demanded that I give her up so that he might take her away for imprisonment. I refused."

  John Tuttrell took a backward step. “Hmm. The lay of the land grows more complicated."

  “That it does."

  John stroked his lean cheeks. “But Sage, do you think this course of action wise?"

  John and he were as brothers; the least of what he owed him was honesty. “Probably not, but the matter is done now. DuFont would take her back to court with him. She would not have survived the journey."

  “I understand.” John's intelligent features tightened. “Though, be the lady guilty or innocent, you must realize that if LaTourne is beheaded, the King will call for the damoiselle's head too. As consort to a condemned traitor and as the natural daughter of one of Scotland's most influential clan leaders, Aeschine is doubly cursed. In gainsaying Rufus in favor of her, you have made your own situation more tenuous. Never forget that the traitor in question is your own cousin! Fair or no, such are the politics of the time we live in."

  LaTourne was his cousin. The reminder made him want to wretch. “From fighting the Crusades to visiting my murdered wife's grave to the treachery of palace intrigue to my blood affiliation with that sodomite, how would I ever be able to forget the politics of these times?"

  “Sage, as your friend, allow me to speak freely: Others may misinterpret your motives here. By refusing to hand over the hostage, it may look to some that you have aligned yourself with a nobility who would see Rufus dethroned. Your action places you in the middle of the political mess that is brewing. I do not envy you your position in this."

  John told him nothing new. Sage's well understood that his once strong childhood ties with King William Rufus grew thinner with each passing year. That thread might be severed as quickly as the head from his neck. If Sage m
ade Rufus look the fool, there would be consequences.

  “Lady Aeschine had no part in that invasion,” he grumbled. “I would stake my life on it."

  “You have staked your life on it,” John said in reply.

  “Listen John, we live under a king who rules only with his coffers in mind. Unrest on the borderlands is costing him. Because of my reputation in warfare, he has picked me to put things in order here; little does Rufus suspect that I no longer have the stomach for killing. But I intend to maintain the peace. My own way. The King will not look too closely at my methods if coins fill his purse. Revenue will keep Rufus appeased and keep my head on my shoulders."

  Sage had thought to use Aeschine as bait. He too was used in much the same fashion. He felt like a fat wiggling worm upon the hook, not yet dead but with limited life expectancy. His options, like those of the worm, were but a shaky few. He might avoid the haddock now, only to have a shark eat him later.

  When darkness overwhelmed him, the urge to ride rampage through the Scottish countryside, torching thatched roofs in reprisal for his wife's death, very nearly seduced him. But he had made a pledge at Joan's gravesite to stop the senseless bloodletting and he would do it.

  Sage spoke the thought aloud. “I do not rest until peace is once again restored on the borderlands."

  John placed his hand on Sage's shoulder. “You have taken up a tremendous burden this day. What might I do to help?"

  “I would call upon you to travel to Aeschine's home, to the village at Roxburgh. Act as my eyes and see what you find there."

  “And if I find that her clan is guilty and that your leman played a part in the invasion, what will you do then?"

  “I do not condone the indiscriminate killing of innocent women and children. We will never have peace here if reprisals pass as justice. And as to Aeschine's role in this, her stepfather beat her.” Sage cleared his throat. “He beat her—repeatedly. The lady expects a whipping at every turn. I tell you, such mistreatment infuriates me. Punishment must match the crime and it must be just!"

  “Some would say that for her, beheading is just."