by Barbara Bard
“Me brother dinnae slay yers,” he snapped, his scarred face now suffused with rage. “He be innocent, so he were. Yer da murdered him withoot proof, so he did.”
“So, you are going to kill me in revenge?”
“Revenge, aye,” he breathed. “Tae kill ye, I dinnae ken yet.”
“If you kill me, you will be hanged just like your brother.”
“’Ere in Sassenach lands, perhaps,” he answered, his anger seemingly gone as fast as it appeared. “Nae north of the border. That be where we be heeded noo.”
Before Catrin had a chance to answer, his six men returned, trotting their horses into the midst of the others. “The Sassenach do run oof, Ranulf,” one of them said. “Nae doubt they run fer home tae gather more tae hunt us doon.”
“Aye, lads, we be goin’,” Ranulf said, seizing her by the arm and dragging her toward her grey gelding. The horse now stood quietly with his reins in a clansman’s fist. With all the effort he might display in lifting a child, Ranulf picked her up by her waist and planted her in her saddle. Despite the awkwardness of having her hands tied behind her back, she slipped her feet into her stirrups and balanced herself as he took her reins.
Leading the grey to his own black, who stood quietly grazing nearby, Ranulf vaulted into his saddle and grinned down at her. “Noo, dinnae be thinkin’ tae throw yerself oof tae escape, fer then I be tyin’ ye cross yer saddle, lass. I wouldnae wish yer pretty face damaged neither.”
Nudging his horse into first a trot, and then a rolling canter, Ranulf led his band north across the moors, Catrin snugged close beside him. Fear still rampaged through her blood, but she kept it under strict control. If he wanted her dead, he would not have taken the trouble to kidnap her and take her into Scotland.
“How did you know where I was?” she asked.
Ranulf grinned. “Ach, lass, that be tae easy. Ye ride every mornin’, ye dae. Always keepin’ yer lads behind. Ye dinnae want tae be taken, lass, dinnae keep a routine.”
“I will remember that in the future,” Catrin replied dryly.
Chuckling, he winked at her. “Ye be a fine, brave lass, ye are, Me Lady. A warrior.”
“Free my hands and give me a bow,” she replied. “I’ll then shoot out your left eye from three hundred yards.”
“Ye be that guid?”
“Indeed I am.”
“Beauty wi’ the skills of a warrior,” he said, admiring. “I dae be impressed, meself. I swear, I ne’er seen eyes like yers before. The color of honey, they are.”
Catrin shrugged. “They are eyes like any other.”
He glanced up and down her body. “Skin like fine porcelain, slender as a whip.” His gaze traveled over her hair, blowing into tangles from the wind created by their speed. “Ach, Me Lady, I dae swear ye bewitched me wi’ yer beauty. I wid find it most difficult tae slit yer throat shood I decide tae.”
“I am certain that’s not difficult for you at all, sir,” Catrin replied. “As your murdering brother’s blood runs in your veins as well.”
Though she expected a burst of rage from him and braced herself, she felt almost disappointed when he simply eyed her sidelong and shrugged.
“Jist as yer murdering da’s blood run in ye.”
Tempted to ask him how he can be so certain his brother did not murder hers, Catrin kept her mouth closed and gazed around her. The sun rose higher in the sky, warming the morning as larks and sparrows, disturbed from their nests in the thickets, flew up with frightened chirps. A doe bounded away from their menace on stick-like legs and light hooves as Ranulf’s men behind her spoke of chasing it.
Walking and trotting their horses by turn to spare them, they traveled onward, ever north, avoiding villages and people. Catrin knew they were still on her father’s lands but could think of no means of escaping Ranulf and his men. Her father, the powerful Duke of Whitewood, no doubt knew by now she had been taken by brigands and would even now be on her trail with a hundred men at arms.
Yet, despite this knowledge, her heart sank. Her father was not a robust or well man. He could not ride far, and whenever he was forced to travel, would take a carriage in very slow stages. While he may force himself to hunt down his daughter’s kidnappers, he could not cross the border into Scotland without risking a war. Tension between the two countries remained high, and it would take the mere tiniest of sparks to ignite the flames of war.
“Donal.” Ranulf stood in his stirrups and half turned, shouting down the line of men. “Ride back, watch uir back trail.”
Sitting in his saddle again, he grinned at Catrin. “Wouldnae want yer da sneakin’ up behin’ us, noo wid we?”
“No, of course not,” she replied, her tone caustic. “You might get hanged like your brother.”
Once again, she underestimated his sense of humor. He chuckled, refusing to rise to her bait. She studied him unobtrusively, wondering what sort of man permits himself to be insulted without becoming angry. One who knows what insults are deadly and those that are not. For the first time since her brother was slain, she considered what it meant for Kyle Thorburn’s family when he died.
“What do you know of what happened that day?” she asked Ranulf.
His brow lifted as he glanced at her. “When yer brother died?”
“Yes.”
Before he could answer, the thunder of hooves sounded from behind them. “Ranulf! Duke’s men! A few miles behin’.”
Catrin smiled. “Did I not tell you so? Perhaps if you give up now, my father will be merciful.”
“Ach, lass,” Ranulf said, putting spurs to his black horse, “yer da is nae match fer uir coorsers.”
Striking a fast gallop over the moors, crossing small streams, Ranulf led his band, keeping Catrin’s horse tight to his leg, further and further north. Despair filled her as she twisted in the saddle, trying to see her father’s men riding hard behind. If we cross into Scotland, I am dead. She had heard the tales and legends of what the Scots did to their captives: torture, rape, a slow and agonizing death awaited those unlucky enough to fall into the hands of these savages. While Ranulf seemed more civilized, she knew his need for revenge would not rest until he slaked his thirst in her blood.
Chapter 2
Exhausted, sweating, his aching joints unable to keep him upright in the saddle, Henry Waterford, the third Duke of Whitewood, reined in his horse at the top of a hill. His men at arms also halted their horses, a long line of mounted men trailing behind. Panting, he waved for the commander of his soldiers, Sir Alban Howard, to ride up beside him.
“Your Grace,” Sir Alban said, bowing in the saddle, “Are you well?”
“No, I bloody well am not!” he snapped, trying to catch his breath. “Ride on. Catch the bloody buggers who took Catrin. I am only slowing you down.”
Reining his horse back down the hill, Henry watched as Sir Alban organized a guard of ten to remain with him, then shouted for the rest to follow him. Hooves thundered over the moors as the mass of mounted retainers galloped over the hill top and rode north.
Lifting his leg over the cantle, Henry almost fell from his horse even as one of his men dismounted to help him. With his hand on the sturdy man’s shoulder, he limped over to a nearby rock to sit down. “Water,” he gasped.
Hurrying to his saddle, the man at arms lifted his leather water bottle down from his pommel, then brought it back to his Duke. Henry drank the cool water down, feeling a little strength return to his body. However, the pain in his joints failed to recede, even off of the horse, and his exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him.
“Bloody cowards,” he muttered, his weakened body trembling. “You will not escape with her. Oh, Catrin.”
Still swamped by grief at the brutal death of his son, Henry, the Duke could not imagine losing Catrin, too. Still, if the thieving cowards crossed into Scotland, he knew the odds of never seeing her again rose to incredible proportions. The Scots, all of them ruthless and bloodthirsty bastards, would no doubt take their time in killi
ng her. He was certain who was behind this atrocity – the Thorburn clan.
He glanced up at the sun. Nearly noon. He had assembled his soldiers the instant her guard returned to report Lady Catrin had been taken by Scottish arms men, and ordered her bodyguards imprisoned. When he had time, he would deal with them. “Bloody cowards,” he repeated, thinking of the men who failed to keep his daughter safe. Mentally planning their very painful execution, he watched the north, waiting, praying, hoping to see Sir Alban riding back triumphant – Catrin returned, the Scots slain.
Hours passed as he sweated under the torturous sun, nibbling on travel rations from his saddle bags, Henry watched and waited. His men lounged near their mounts, keeping a wary eye on the moors around them while talking in low tones. At last, he heard the sound of galloping hooves and stood, his backside aching from the hard rock he sat upon. Hopeful, he searched the band of riders, expecting to see Catrin among them.
She was not.
Sir Alban reined in and dismounted to bow. “Your Grace, the villains crossed the border with Lady Catrin. We dared not follow.”
Henry cursed bitterly. “They will kill her now.”
“Perhaps not. Ranulf Thorburn is said to be an honorable man. He may not have taken her to kill her, but to keep her from you. If he wanted his revenge by her death, why did he not kill her when he caught her?”
A tendril of hope wormed its way into the Duke’s heart. “Perhaps you are right. If you are, there may be ways I can get her back.”
“Exactly, Your Grace.”
Henry limped toward his horse. “Help me up.”
Sir Alban bent and laced his fingers together, offering them as a stirrup for the Duke to step into. Once he had his liege lord’s weight in them, he heaved the Duke up and into his saddle. Henry sat atop his mount, breathing hard, his eyes closed.
“Your Grace,” Sir Alban said, his tone uneasy, worried. “Perhaps we should construct a litter for you.”
Henry’s eyes opened. “No, my friend, I will be all right. Let us return to the castle.”
Vaulting into his own saddle, Sir Alban rode at his liege’s side, his horse, already tired, was happy to make a slower pace. Henry felt his eyes on him, his hand ready to steady the Duke as they rode should he need it. The soldiers rode in a long line behind them, their usual chatter quiet and subdued.
“Are you going to execute those men, Your Grace?” Sir Alban asked.
Henry eyed him sidelong, breathing hard, sweating. “Should I not?”
“They were outnumbered, at least fifteen to two,” Sir Alban said. “Had they rushed into battle for Lady Catrin, they would have died, she still would have been kidnapped, and you would not now know what happened to her.”
“So, you are asking me to spare them? They ran like cowards.”
“So would any sensible man when faced with such odds stacked against them.”
“Would you?”
Sir Alban grinned. “Faster than they did.”
Henry grunted. “You have never run from a fight in your life.”
“All I am saying is that they do not deserve to be executed for this,” Sir Alban went on. “Demote them, punish them, but do not kill them. I know those two, they are loyal to their bones. And if I know Lady Catrin, she commanded they ride at a distance from her.”
Henry cursed under his breath. “I have told her hundreds of times to stop that idiotic behavior. The men are there to protect her, and if they are not, they cannot do their jobs.”
“Precisely my point, Your Grace,” Sir Alban said.
“So, you are diverting my rage so I do not execute them, is that it?”
“Is it working?”
“Bloody hell, yes. Consider me diverted. You dole out whatever suitable punishment you believe they deserve.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Full night had fallen by the time Henry, Sir Alban and the soldiers returned to his castle, Castle Linfield. Dogs barked from their kennels as they trotted into the bailey, grooms and pages rushing out to take horses from Henry and Sir Alban. Henry kept the groan behind his clenched teeth as he slid down from his saddle. He held onto Sir Alban with a tight grip even as the knight shouted for Henry’s personal physician.
“Your Grace, perhaps we can carry you.”
Shaking his head, Henry grimly limped across the rush and straw strewn bailey toward the postern doors, his men unsaddling their mounts and leading them into the stables to care for them. Servants in plain homespun wool bowed him through into the castle, waiting to serve him his supper, or pour his wine. Torches flared in sconces as he carefully made his way up the stairs to his chambers, leaning heavily on Sir Alban’s arm.
His personal manservant, James Irwin, helped him to undress and slide under the covers of his bed. Henry sighed, his eyes shut, wondering if he had strength enough to eat. As his physician hurried in and Sir Alban bowed, planning to leave, Henry grasped the knight’s arm, restraining him.
Opening his eyes, he looked up. “In the town of Linfield, there is a tavern. It is called The Lucky Hog. Dreadful sort of place.”
“And?”
“Find a man who goes by the name of Black Charlie,” Henry said, his voice trembling with exhaustion and pain. “He frequents there. Come morning, I want to see him.”
Sir Alban frowned. “I think I know what you are planning, Your Grace. Are you sure asking the help of brigands is a wise thing to do? There are other ways we can get Lady Catrin back rather than use those black hearts.”
“They can cross into Scotland,” Henry replied wearily. He closed his eyes. “I cannot. They can kill Thorburn and bring Catrin back to me.”
***
After sleeping with the aid of one of his physician’s tinctures, Henry felt stronger, and rose from his bed well after dawn. Though still shaky, and his joints still feeling as though sand had gotten into them, he broke his fast with a hearty appetite. Upon asking, he learned that Sir Alban had left for the town of Linfield and had not yet returned. “Most excellent. Send him here to my quarters the instant he returns.”
The sun shone bright and warm through his windows as Henry sat in a chair in the midst of the rays, soaking them up and feeling the pain in his joints ease. Wearing a loose robe over his dressing gown, he dozed, waking occasionally to glance out the window and into the bailey below. Thus, he happened to observe Sir Alban returning with a tall, lanky man in a black cloak with the hood obscuring his face. The man in black rode a bay as rangy as himself.
“James,” Henry called. “I must get dressed.”
Freshly washed and dressed, Henry returned to his chair by the window. He did not wait long. Within minutes, his manservant returned to announce Sir Alban. “Bring them in.”
Henry stood, albeit shakily, his hands behind his back to hide their tremor. Wearing his black and silver tunic embossed with his coat of arms, hose, and his sword and dagger in their sheaths, he watched as Sir Alban and Black Charlie arrived to bow low.
“Your Grace,” Sir Alban intoned formally. “Black Charlie is here at your request.”
The tall man flipped back the hood of his long cloak. “Your Grace,” he said with a tight smile. “It has been a long time since we met last.”
Though he was a criminal and a blackguard, Charlie spoke with the accent and intonations of an aristocrat. Henry always suspected he was the second or third son of a nobleman who eschewed the more respectable means of making a living. A short, puckered scar lay across his left cheek, his shaggy black hair tumbled over his shoulders and brow. Bright blue eyes gleamed from his swarthy face while his insolent half-smile remained in place.
“Yes, it has,” Henry replied, keeping his tone neutral. “I wish to engage your services, Master Charlie.”
“Would you now?” He stroked his short dark beard as he paced slowly around the chamber, eyeing the tapestries as though evaluating their worth. “I must tell you, my prices have gone up. Too many expenditures.”
When Sir Alban�
�s face darkened and would have ordered the brigand to stand motionless and face the Duke with proper respect, Henry gestured for him to remain still. “This task I have for you will pay quite handsomely, I assure you.”
Charlie stopped and faced him. “What is the task, if I may inquire? You might recall that the higher the danger levels, the higher the cost.”
Henry curled his lip. “I remember. My daughter, the Lady Catrin, has been kidnapped by Scotsmen. I want her back.”
Charlie whistled low. “This will cost you, indeed.”
His hand still clasped behind his back, Henry paced slowly around the brigand. “I want my daughter returned to me, unharmed, untouched, and her kidnapper slain. You will bring me his head as proof. For all this, I am willing to pay you one hundred gold crowns.”
