by Alexa Aston
He hovered a heartbeat from taking off on foot when the troop, leading Derk, Hugo and their pack mounts, appeared over the crest of the slope above the valley, following the line of the gully. Even from this distance, he sensed their anger.
“Mernoc was murdered,” Sir Hersin said moments later as he slid from his horse, his tone so empty of inflection he might merely have spoken of the breeze that ruffled his hair. ’Twas belied by the sudden, vicious swat he gave to his boot with his riding crop. “We found his body stuffed into a hole in the ground so close to the camp ’twas an insult. The lichieres pautonnier who did the deed must have killed him shortly after I dispatched my men to find that Scot, which makes Dugald the most obvious suspect.”
“As I believe.” Elrik’s impatience to depart did not lessen, though now he understood the patrol’s delay. “None of us has seen aught of any other.”
“That is my thought, as well. Yet how does the man escape our vigilance? There is no place to hide. Did I not know better, I might be tempted to believe him half fantosme.”
Betek spoke up. “Elrik and I, we have known men with the ability to conceal themselves in plain sight. A man of our company once crept so close to our enemy he overheard private speech. He did this in daylight, though the grass in which he hid barely topped the height of his prone body. He slipped safely away in the shadows of gloaming, with them none the wiser. One with the same talent, who knows this land well, would be able to match that feat.” He glanced at Elrik. “’Twould explain how Dugald surprised us that night, though I dislike the reminder of our incompetence.”
“He made fools of us all,” Hersin said. His jaw clenched, but then he inhaled and released the breath in a drawn out sigh. “I would hunt him down, but my duty now lies elsewhere.” He jerked his head toward the three bound Scots. “These must be taken to Castle Duresme to stand trial. Regrettably, my attendance is required. Howbeit, Sir William and Sir Estienne are determined to continue the search for the Scot, be he the one who took the fair Yrsa or nay.”
“I would hear first from Sir Estienne,” Elrik said. “Events have come about in such a way there was no chance to listen to his report.”
He considered the knight. Sir Estienne de Wolfe was a large fellow, well favored, and dark in coloring. He looked of an age with William and Hersin, both of whom were so young their knightly spurs were not yet scarred. Yet about him clung an unyielding self-assurance unusual for one with less experience of life. Despite a wound to his right thigh and the battering he suffered while a prisoner of the Scots he would likely, even now, be a formidable foe in combat.
“So then, have you aught to add to our knowledge, Norman?”
After dismounting, Sir Estienne had taken seat upon a fallen log and appeared to study the ground at his feet. At Elrik’s words, he lifted his head. Patience born of hardship long endured gleamed from eyes of a hazel hue. Pain and weariness limned his face, but he answered readily enough. “There is little to tell. We followed hard after the Scots for many days. Never once did they let up in their flight until they doubled back to ambush us. My men fought well but were outnumbered. Four of the Scots assailed me. I took a slash to the thigh and a blow to the head. I faltered.” He sounded mildly annoyed, as if he believed such wounds did not slow other men and thus should not have hampered him. “They took me down. I was bound and carried from the battle. I knew not what happened to my men until Sir William came. Howbeit, from the two assigned to guard me, I learned they did not kill me because they hoped for ransom from my father.”
“Saint’s toes,” Elrik said. “They know who you are, though I do not. Who is your father?”
Sir Estienne drew himself up, though the effort clearly cost him. His indrawn breath hissed sharply. He started to topple and grimaced as he grabbed a branch for balance. “I am Estienne de Wolfe, son of Gaetan de Wolfe of Warstone, Earl of Wolverhampton.”
Hersin whistled. “The Warwolfe. All of England knows of him. He is very close to the king. ’Tis naught to wonder the Scots would seek ransom.”
“I told them he would not pay, but they gave no heed.”
Elrik frowned. “Why think you he would not?”
“I am his firstborn but a bastard of his youth. He never knew of me until I followed him to England after the death of my mother. A goldsmith’s daughter she was, older than my father and already married to a man thrice her age. That man died believing me his son, but on her deathbed she told me the truth.” He sighed. “My father acknowledged me, and I took his name. He did his duty and saw me sent to squire with Baron Josse Richeut of Sanglent de Roc in Dorsete, to whom I have given my allegiance. I have seen him but twice since that time. He declared himself proud of my accomplishments, but both times I came away understanding I have no place in his life. I can think of no reason why he would pay a large sum of coin to buy my freedom from the Scots.”
“Which explains,” Elrik said, “why they stayed so nigh the border. They awaited the payment.”
“Aye, ’tis one reason, but I overheard them when they knew not I lay awake. They anticipated reinforcements from the north. They had orders from King Malcolm, only part of which were to continue raids into the lands of Northymbre and Duresme.” He paused to purse his lower lip between two fingers. “They had a task of much importance laid upon them by Malcolm. Something about rebels, but then they moved outside and spoke not of it again.”
Sir William stirred at that. “This news will be of much interest to those at Duresme Castle.”
“’Twill not please King William when he learns of it,” Hersin said. “His patience with Malcolm’s treachery has ever been thin.”
Elrik scratched the stubble along his jaw. “When did they expect these fresh forces?”
“Any day,” Estienne said, “yet I gained an impression of concern. ’Tis my thought those they awaited tarried in their arrival. Once, one of my guards wondered aloud if they would come at all, before the other shushed him.”
“It grows late,” Hersin said, checking his saddle’s girth strap and tightening the cinch a little more. “We must take our leave. I wish to exit this valley before the fog thickens. I intend to ride hard so as to reach Duresme without delay. Thus, we can spare much of our food, Elrik of Breda, and have already taken the liberty of packing it in your gear. You will move faster without the necessity to hunt.”
“I accept it gladly, Sir Hersin. You also have our thanks for your intervention with the Scots. ’Tis likely their intent toward us lacked goodwill.”
Hersin humphed and then called to his men to mount up. He rode to the head of the small column and drew rein. “Sir William. Sir Estienne. Be it known your deeds and that of the men who died will be honestly recounted to Sir Blaise Bohun, as will my judgment you have acquitted yourselves with honor in all that has taken place. Also, that you continue to follow your orders to find and apprehend the Scot leader.” His glance took in Elrik and Betek. “Good hunting, sirs. May you find the maid Yrsa safe and unharmed.”
Amid gruff farewells, the Norman troop turned to the east, cleared the line of woods and urged their horses toward their back trail.
Before they trotted out of sight, Elrik leapt to the saddle. To Sir William and Sir Estienne he said, “Keep up or be left behind.”
Turning Derk in the opposite direction to the Normans and keeping the river to his right, he set out after Yrsa.
When next Yrsa opened her eyes, reassuring firelight flickered from four tall braziers. The glow illumined her chamber, but what the light revealed appeared so amazing she could but stare. ’Twas a room of sorts, a little larger than her old cottage, but unlike any building she ever imagined. The space appeared carved from solid rock—floor, walls and low, uneven ceiling. It cocooned her in gray stone, but not masonry like the headman’s cottage in Ottham. Nay, the flickering light that illumined the surface revealed oddly patterned, irregular waves and ridges, much like water-washed mud, only more sharply defined. No windows pierced the walls, and no exit save a
narrow passage beyond which showed naught but more darkness. The distant rumble as of rushing water continued.
The fires, which bore the earthy aroma of peat, lessened the chill. The braziers, her bed, and a small, carved table with a single stool comprised the only furnishings.
She remained alone, though mayhap her captor was not far away.
On the back of that thought there came a light and a stirring in the passage. A feminine figure stepped through into the space. The woman carried a basket and held high a torch.
Tall and fair of face and coloring, and in age mayhap two score summers, she nodded upon meeting Yrsa’s gaze. “Ah, good, you are awake. I am Branwen, wife to Keir, chief of our people. I am also healer.” She positioned the torch in a sconce above the pallet and bent to check the wound on Yrsa’s head. “There is no new bleeding, though you have quite a lump.” She straightened. “Are you in pain?”
“A little. Not more than I can bear.”
“After you have broken your fast, I will give you a medicinal draft.” She cocked a brow. “’Tis my thought you must have an urgent need by now. I will help you, but you may experience dizziness upon first sitting. Mayhap nausea, as well.”
She was right. Lightheadedness almost overwhelmed Yrsa when first Branwen helped her to her feet. Her stomach roiled but settled soon enough. Once back in the pallet, this time sitting against the wall with her rolled up cloak behind her, she determined to gain answers. She did not fear this woman, but had so many questions she knew not which to ask first.
Starting with the one that intrigued her most, she gestured at the strange rock walls. “What is this place? I do not recognize the construction.”
The healer gave a mellow chuckle. “Construction? Nay, not constructed, except by time. Are there no caverns, rooms below the surface of the earth, where you are from?”
“Underground?” The last half of the word came out in a high-pitched squeak. She peered at the arching, uneven ceiling. “A man from the west once came through our village and told of large chambers beneath the earth. He said some had water inside.” She turned her gaze back to Branwen. “We did not believe him.”
“As you see, ’tis the truth.”
“’Tis a marvel, is what ’tis.”
Branwen sat on the stool. She lifted a crock from her basket to pour a cup of liquid that she handed to Yrsa.
’Twas a delicious mead, sweet and fortifying. It soothed her parched throat. She hoped the woman brought food, as well. Her stomach had calmed and now growled like an angry badger.
“Where flows the water I hear?”
“The river’s course lies not far beyond the cavern wall. It waters the valley…and before you ask,” she said, taking back the cup and offering a wedge of creamy yellow cheese, “you have come to Tamescombe.”
A valley. The place of her dream? She had thought to come here with Elrik, but in truth, the dream did not show her traveling with the others, only biding with them here as companions. “The one who brought me here. Do you know him?”
“I do.”
“Know you he knocked me unconscious and stole me from my friends? I ask you to take him in hand and hold him to face them.”
The healer unearthed a cloth-covered item from which the smell of freshly baked bread tantalized. She unwrapped an earthenware plate that held a small loaf.
The first taste caused Yrsa to close her eyes and moan with pleasure. Half of a honeyed pear then completed the meal.
Hunger and thirst satisfied, she repeated her last question.
Branwen repacked the basket. “The one who brought you here said he found you on the high fells, unconscious from an apparent fall. No woman would travel alone in this land, so he searched for your companions. He did not find them.” A hint of reproach shone from her gaze. “You speak ill of him, but he saved your life.”
“Is his name Dugald? Is he a Scot?”
Branwen’s eyes narrowed. She bent to the basket and withdrew a small flask. “Drink this. ’Twill ease your pain.”
“How long have I been here?”
“’Tis past mid-watch. You came to us at early eve.” She rose and added fresh peat to the braziers. “I will answer no more questions at this time, but know you are safe. Rest now. I will come again soon.”
“Wait, please!”
Branwen paused.
“Not long ago I dreamed I would come to a valley, a place of much beauty and peace. Great danger threatened the people. My dreams of this kind always come true. I offer this warning that you may take what precautions you will.”
The healer’s look nigh burned into her soul, but then she took up the torch. Basket in hand, she left.
Yrsa sighed. Would Branwen believe her and pass on the message? Would they release her?
Ah, but she already disliked this place. She hated the separation from Elrik and despite the healer’s assurances, felt like a prisoner. She got to her feet. She would find the way out on her own.
Ignoring the mild throb that still beat in her head and the resulting slight dizziness, she started into the passage. She traced the wall with her fingertips for balance.
She counted four and ten hesitant steps, more wobbly than she liked, before the passage made a sharp turn to the left. She crept a little further, but quickly, the light behind faded. As she started to turn to go back the wall beneath her hand fell away. She stumbled into a black void. Her toe stubbed on some unseen obstruction, pitching her painfully onto hands and knees.
Engulfed once more in suffocating darkness, she fought a lackwitted urge to simply jump up and run. There might be walls, furniture, aye anything large and solid right in front of her, but a terrifying sense of vast emptiness banished all desire to explore further. She forced several slow, deep breaths past the tightness in her chest. Getting back to the lighted chamber was now the overriding need. ’Twas but a matter of retracing her movements. Just go back.
Fearful of losing direction to the passage, she did not try to regain her feet. Turning neither right nor left, she backed her way on hands and knees until a cold, vertical surface met her questing hand.
A new fear caught her when she stood. The medicinal draft Branwen gave her had begun to take effect. ’Twas becoming hard to focus. She turned until she faced the wall, not allowing her right hand to lose contact until the left palm pressed flat against it. She gasped, a small sob escaping her throat when after but a few cautious steps, the light reappeared. She reached the chamber, crossed to the pallet and collapsed. How she wanted out of this place. ’Twas too much like a tomb.
As the medicinal draft dragged her into healing sleep, she cuddled beneath the furs, comforted in the certainty Elrik would find her. He would. He would rescue her from this pit of Hel. She had but to hold on.
Chapter Nine
The river’s course led out of the fog-shrouded valley and back onto the moorlands. Twilight drew down early with the cloud cover, but the men kept moving until ’twas too dim to see plainly.
Elrik’s night vision was keen. Had he been alone, he would have walked on late into the dark hours, leading Derk and keeping the muted gurgle of the river nigh, but a glance back revealed Sir Estienne drooped across his saddle horn. William rode close beside, his expression worried.
Elrik met Betek’s gaze. His friend, seeing the direction of his look, nodded. They both applauded Estienne’s will, but the abuse the man’s body had taken extracted a price. The previous night had been short and the day long and arduous. The morrow would be the same. They all needed rest.
He called a halt, but they made no fire. Estienne ate sparingly while William tended his leg wound and then collapsed onto his pallet. He slept before the other knight draped him with a blanket.
Betek stood and stretched. “I will take first watch.”
“And I the next,” Elrik said.
William grunted as he took to his hard bed. “The last for me, then.”
Though weary, Elrik found sleep elusive without Yrsa in his arms. H
e brooded, hating the separation. His deliberations razor-edged, he sought to pinpoint the moment when a woman his liege lord ordered him to kill became so important to his sanity and well-being he would do almost anything to get her back and keep her safe and close.
“He wants her. We must hope he will not harm her further before we catch them. Also, it does no good to think on what cannot be helped.” The observation in Betek’s quiet voice blunted the keenest edge of his thoughts.
“I know.”
“We will find her.”
“I know.”
“Then sleep, my friend. Morn will arrive soon enough.”
Somehow, he did sleep and after his watch, slept again, though just before first light another nightmare assaulted him. He slashed endlessly with a dream sword at phantom enemies only to feel another’s blade penetrate his heart. Blood gushed forth, and he cried out from the agony.
He jerked awake and shot upright, gasping and clutching at his chest. Feeling pain with this dream was an unwelcome first. Drenched with sweat, he blinked away the images. A misty rain fell soft on his face, its chill welcome. Darkness lingered, but a lessoning of the shadows heralded the dawn.
He started and cursed when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “These nightmares grow worse,” Betek said, his voice sleep-husky. “One night you will damage yourself in the midst of one.”
He grunted and struggled to his feet, his thoughts sluggish and his body slow to respond. Why was it he dreamed not at all when he slept with Yrsa?
William woke Sir Estienne.
Grim humor curled Elrik’s lips. At least the young knight appeared to have rested well. Briskly alert, Estienne showed little evidence of the stiffness and fatigue of the day previous. Well and good. He would not slow their progress.
