Triskelion

by Avril Borthiry

  Something slammed into his chest with such force, it ripped the breath from his lungs. The floor seemed to shift beneath his feet and a searing pain, unlike any he had ever felt, pushed him toward a well of blackness. He plunged into it, seeking the relief it promised. Yet, even from the depths of his paralysed mind, Thomas heard Katherine's muffled scream.

  And he knew he had failed her.

  ~ ~ ~

  John Harrington turned his horse onto the lane leading down to Wraysholme. This higher vantage usually afforded a clear view of his home and the Lancaster sands beyond. On this fine morning, a humid haze thickened the air, distorting the image of a group of horsemen travelling across the empty bay. Some distance behind them, there appeared to be a large dog in pursuit – a blurred silver streak flying across the sand. A memory from years before stirred in John's mind, and his eyes darted to the cave in the cliffs.

  “They're in a hurry,” said Edgar, who rode at John's side. His comment dragged John back from the brink of melancholy thought. “I wonder why. The tide isn't due for a few hours yet.”

  John shrugged. “Young knaves racing, no doubt. It will likely end badly.”

  “Oh, I don't know.” Edgar sniffed. “We've embraced risk, foolish and otherwise. We've survived.”

  “Aye, but not unscathed. I'm only here today because of my wife's ability to heal.” John cleared his throat, inwardly cursing the direction his mind insisted on taking. More memories, still raw, rose to the surface, like bubbles escaping the bottom of a lake.

  Edgar grunted. “I wonder if Katherine obeyed your orders to stay within Wraysholme's walls.”

  “She would not dare do otherwise.” Yet, despite his confident words, John's eyes scanned the shoreline, looking for any sign of his wayward daughter. Katherine had become even more withdrawn of late, her behaviour distracted and mopish.

  “She'll not dare defy me either, once we're wed.” Edgar shifted in the saddle. “I shall expect similar obedience, and without any argument.”

  Unsettled by the sharpness of Edgar's tone, John scowled. “I expect my daughter to be cherished, Edgar. I'll not condone ill-treatment of her.”

  Edgar huffed. “She'll not be ill-treated, my friend, but I have expectations, and Katherine will be required to meet them. The girl will want for nothing, but as her husband I have the right to demand her unquestionable obedience. I'm sure you agree.”

  John didn't answer. The seed of doubt about Katherine's upcoming marriage stirred to life with Edgar's words. Worse, he imagined Adela's disapproval reaching out to him from beyond the grave.

  His wife's indomitable spirit, which he had loved beyond measure, now lived on in their daughter. Oh, he knew Katherine's wilfulness needed to be curbed – if only for her own safety - but not smothered. Never that. Maybe he needed to rethink--

  “Listen.” Edgar pulled his horse to a sudden halt. “Did you hear that?”

  John reined in and tilted his head. “What? I heard nothing.”

  Edgar frowned. “I’m sure I heard--”

  A scream, that of a woman, rose into the air above Wraysholme's grey roof. John's heart contracted.

  Katherine.

  “Oh, Christ.” Bile, hot and bitter, burned the back of his throat as he spurred his horse into a startled gallop. A volley of questions hurtled through his mind. Had the Welsh finally come to claim Katherine as one of their own? No, they wouldn't dare take her by force. Would they? What was he thinking to leave his child with only a squire and an ageing stableman for protection? Fear and guilt knotted in his belly and he cursed his carelessness.

  The horses clattered into the empty courtyard. John drew his sword and slid from the saddle, heart hammering against his ribs. A moment later, Edgar stepped up beside him.

  “It's quiet,” he muttered. “I see no sign of intrusion.”

  “Too quiet.” John tightened the grip on his sword and approached the stable. “Where's Thomas? He usually greets my return.”

  No sooner had he spoken the words than a figure appeared in the stable doorway, a sword clasped in his hand. John stiffened, his own blade raised and ready, but this was no intruder.

  “David!” He lowered his weapon and cast an anxious eye over the squire's defeated appearance. “What's happened? Are you all right? Is Katherine safe?”

  David's eyes, wide with apparent shock, fixed onto John's face.

  “They shot Thomas,” he mumbled. “Why...why would anyone do that?

  “Shot...? Sweet Jesus.” John stomach lurched and he gripped the boy's shoulder. “Where's Katherine, lad? Is she safe? Answer me, damn it. Where is she?”

  David blinked and shook his head. “I don't know, my lord. I was in your study when I heard a woman screaming. It was the kitchen maid. She'd gone out to collect eggs and found Thomas...” His breath shuddered as he looked over his shoulder. “He's in there. Dead, I think. But I saw no one. Nor did I hear anything.”

  Edgar uttered a curse, pushed past them, and disappeared into the stable

  “John.” His voice barked from the shadows. “Come here.”

  John obeyed with little thought, his poor mind locked in a fight with a terrible truth. Edgar was crouched next to Thomas, who lay pale and still on the stable floor. The shaft of an arrow, centred in an ominous dark stain, protruded from the left side of the stableman's chest.

  “He breathes yet, but barely.” Edgar slid an arm beneath Thomas's shoulders. “Help me lift him. We need to get him inside.”

  “David will help you.” Numb with despair, John turned and looked at Wraysholme. By now, he should have heard Katherine's voice. She should have already appeared in the doorway and run to the safety of his arms, glad of her father's protection. Someone – for a reason that yet eluded him - had dared to take his child from her home. Not only that, he had seen her abductors with his own eyes, and the realization all but pushed him to his knees.

  Forgive me, Katherine. Christ, I'm so sorry.

  Rage and regret firing his blood, he slid his sword back into the scabbard, and walked toward his horse. “I have to find my daughter.”

  “Hold!” Edgar lay Thomas down again and rose to his feet. “Where the hell are you going?”

  “It was those horsemen, Edgar. The group we saw out in the bay? They took her, I'm sure of it. I'm going after them.”

  “But...but why would they take her? I don't understand.” Edgar stepped into the sunlight. “I'm going with you, then. David, see to--”

  “No. I want you to stay here and help Thomas. He's a witness to this abduction.” John swung into the saddle and gathered up the reins. “If I'm unable to track those bastards, Thomas's testimony might at least tell me who they are. Get him inside and summon the surgeon.”

  “None of this makes sense.” Edgar's shout followed John as he galloped toward the shore. “Why would anyone take Katherine?”

  Why indeed? Yet they had, and in a brutal fashion, it seemed. John tried to recall how many riders he had seen out in the bay. The memory of the blurred image gave him little detail. Four horsemen? Five, maybe? He reined in his horse at the shoreline, where a number of hoof prints had churned up the dry earth. He followed their direction to where they set out across the ridged sand-flats, only to have reality strike him another sickening blow.

  The bay, under the continual assault of the tide, always erased the tracks of those who dared to cross. Already, the waterlogged surface had settled the sand back into its natural state, smothering the evidence John sought. He cursed and rose up in his stirrups, squinting into the distance. There was no sign of life, no dark blurs on the horizon. Whoever the men were, they had vanished into the haze.

  And they had taken Katherine with them.

  Chapter 12

  Thomas dropped like a sack of grain, the arrow's shaft still quivering in his chest.

  Kate's scream never escaped her lips. A callused hand clamped over her mouth and pulled her back against the hard wall of a body that surely belonged to a giant.

&n
bsp; Terror washed over her like a wave of frigid water. She knew what was happening. She'd seen it in her dreams.

  May God have mercy, for she was not dreaming now.

  Driven by panic, she clawed at the suffocating hand, which had all but severed her ability to breathe. Her lungs burned for air, and her heart seemed to harden and rise into her throat. A massive arm wrapped around her waist, picking her from the ground like a stalk of grass. She kicked and struggled even as everything around her faded to a swirling black mist.

  “You're suffocating the lass, Crovan,” a voice said, with a soft Scottish burr, “and dead, she's worth bugger all.”

  Her captor grunted and shifted a finger, allowing air into her nostrils. Kate sucked it in, tears flooding her eyes at the sudden relief. Worth? Her mind tried to make sense of the meaning. Her father was not wealthy, so what possible worth could she have? Beset by fear, she fought anew, kicking and scratching like a wild creature. The man growled and placed his finger across Kate's nostrils again. Starved of air, she whimpered against him and stopped struggling.

  “Aye, that's better,” he muttered, shifting his hand to let her breathe.

  The brute was carrying her down the lane, she realized, which led to the shore. There, hidden from Wraysholme by a thick wall of hawthorn, four horses stood waiting. One of them was a huge beast, his mane and tail shorn in a harsh fashion. His big head turned toward her and he rolled his eyes, nostrils flaring.

  Tossed face down across the saddle of the massive horse, Kate at last found her voice.

  “You bastard,” she croaked out. “May the Devil take--.”

  She yelped as a fist snagged a handful of hair and yanked her head upwards. Her curse, had she been allowed to finish it, would have been redundant. The Devil, evidently, already possessed the Goliath who glowered down at her. Only in nightmares could such a countenance be imagined.

  The man had a face void of compassion, the whites of his soulless eyes stained with a yellowish tinge. The heat and stench of his breath forced Kate to swallow against a wave of nausea. His wiry hair and beard was a flame-red mass, woven here and there into rough tethered braids.

  “'Tis the Devil who's paying me, lassie.” He released his hold, freeing his hand to bind her wrists with a rough cord. “Now, be an agreeable wench and keep quiet. I'm not as friendly as I look.” He gave a black-toothed grin and looked past her. “Am I, lads?”

  Kate heard some guffaws behind her.

  “Why are you doing this?” Trembling with fear, she struggled against her bonds. “Please, sir, I beg of you. Let me go.”

  He climbed into the saddle and tugged her body halfway across his lap, her chest squeezed between him and the pommel.

  “One more word,” he growled, “and I'll gag you.”

  The horse sprang into a gallop, a movement which thrust tears to her eyes as the hard pommel dug into her ribs.

  Unable to hold her head up, Kate watched the rippled sand fly beneath the horse's hooves. The relentless motion made her dizzy, and she closed her eyes against an urge to vomit. The pain in her ribs burrowed deep into her chest, the skin rubbed raw against the hard leather of the saddle.

  The men, whoever they were, rode in silence. Kate tried to guess at their direction, but her mind, numb with fear, refused to focus. When a blessed darkness beckoned, she went to it willingly, sliding into a semi-conscious world of shock and despair.

  Her welcome escape did not last long.

  She felt the horse slow to a walk, and the giant tugged on her hair, twisting her head around to look at him.

  “Is the wee witch asleep?” His knee jarred her chin and Kate's teeth sank into her tongue. She whimpered, tasting blood.

  “Please,” she mumbled, teetering on the edge of oblivion. “Stop. I...can't. Please, I beg of you.”

  A different voice spoke – the same one she had heard earlier.

  “We'll not be paid for a corpse, Crovan and the lass is at her limit. Perhaps we should rest for a while.”

  “Christ, stop your whinging, Donald. The lass is fine.” Crovan sniffed. “It's too bad he wants her intact, or we'd stop, aye.” His hand slid around to squeeze her breast. “But she'd not be resting much.”

  Laughter rang out as the horse surged forward again, and a sharp jolt of pain pushed her into the merciful void.

  Awareness returned when she felt the roughness of sand against her cheek and heard the soft whisper of waves against the shore. She opened her eyes and pushed a swollen tongue across dry lips. Pain shuddered through her as she tried to lift her head, and she sank back into the sand, unwilling to move. The sun scorched her exposed skin, and the sound of the water triggered a sudden and formidable thirst.

  A shadow loomed over her, and a foot nudged at her shoulder. “Wake up.”

  “Please,” she croaked. “A... drink.”

  A large hand closed around her arm and pulled her upright. Every muscle she possessed, it seemed, burned with pain. Wrists still bound, Kate moaned, swaying on her feet, but the hand held her fast. Crovan lowered his head until his lips were but a finger-width from hers.

  “A kiss in exchange for a drink?” His vile breath brushed across Kate's face, and a sudden burst of repulsion thrust her fear aside.

  “Go to hell,” she said, through gritted teeth. “I'd rather thirst.”

  Crovan laughed and released his hold. “See to her,” he said to a man at his back, and moved off to where the horses stood.

  With a shaky breath of relief, Kate sank to her knees and looked up and down the desolate strip of beach. Rolling swaths of sand dunes lay behind her, spreading out on either side as far as the eye could see. Ahead, a placid sea stretched to the horizon. Although nothing looked familiar, she knew they had to be on the western shore. No doubt this was a rendezvous point. But where would she be taken from here? She had not seen that in her dream. Kate shivered as the image of the dark stranger took shape in her mind. He wanted her, that she knew, and Crovan's words returned to haunt her thoughts.

  ...he wants her intact...

  What did that mean?

  Something brushed her arm and she flinched. A man, his appearance less frightening than that of Crovan, stood over her. Curly brown hair framed a square face, which held an expression of mild sympathy. Without speaking, he held out a leather flagon.

  Because of her bonds, Kate reached for the vessel with both hands. Desperate, she all but inhaled the contents, and proceeded to choke as they hit the back of her throat. With a mumbled curse, the man pulled the flagon away and waited until her sputtering had stopped. Then he tipped the spout to her lips and poured a little at a time into her mouth.

  “My thanks,” she muttered, her thirst at last quenched.

  The man responded with a single nod, and left to join the others, who now sat in a group farther down the beach. Kate had no doubt they were waiting for someone.

  She observed the group, focusing on the two she had not yet seen. One had a shorn head, his scalp decorated with a strange design that appeared to have been etched onto his skin. The other was a thin man, his features hidden by a hood. Each of them had an unkempt appearance – the look of men who lived wild.

  Outlaws? Mercenaries?

  She looked around again, wondering if she should try to run. The rope around her wrists bit into her skin as if to remind her that she would not get far. Tears of desolation came to her eyes. Her father and Edgar would have returned to Wraysholme by now. She imagined their shock at finding her gone and Thomas wounded, perhaps even dead. Would they be able to track her abductors across the sands? It seemed unlikely.

  And what of Owen? He could not know of her predicament. Not yet. She bit back a sob, wondering if she would ever see any of them again.

  A sudden shout drew her away from her dark musings. All four men were now standing, their gaze directed out over the sea. Kate followed it, and her breath snagged in her chest.

  A boat – no – a small ship, complete with sail, was heading straight tow
ard them. Kate's heart faltered. She knew, with a sudden, sickening certainty, that the ship carried the true instigator of her abduction. Until that moment, a journey across water had not even occurred to her. How could her father track her over water? She would be lost to him – gone forever.

  Every instinct now screamed at her to run. She rose onto disobedient legs and stumbled toward the dunes, the soft sand pulling at her feet like weighted chains. A shout rose up behind her, and she knew her desperate flight had already been noticed.

  “Oh, God, please. Please help me,” she sobbed, even as the sound of pursuing footfalls drew near. She screamed when a giant fist grabbed her hair and jerked her head back, twisting it around. Once again she found herself face to face with Crovan's devilish countenance, his eyes glittering with malice.

  “By Satan's hairy arse,” he said, “where do you think you're going?”

  Hatred, like a sudden bolt of lightning, exploded inside her, extinguishing her fear like a candle flame in a gale.

  “You vile, stinking, evil bastard,” she shouted through her tears. “I hate you with my whole heart. May you die in agony and forever rot in Hell.”

  Her spittle hit him square in the eyes as her right knee connected with his testicles. Crovan didn't flinch, although a flush darkened his face. He released her, wiped the spit from his eyes, and stepped back. Chest heaving, Kate held his gaze, her anger dissolving beneath the fearful realization of what she had done. God in Heaven. Was she mad? She awaited his reaction – a beating, no doubt. To her surprise, she saw the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  His head tilted back and a roar of laughter escaped him. Still grinning, he turned to the men, who stood, open-mouthed, nearby.

  “The witch has spirit! God's balls, I like a woman with spirit.” He turned back to her. “You need to cool your temper, my lady!”