by Kris Tualla
Archie blushed. “Yes, my lady.”
“Good. I expect you to be the hero today.” She kicked Rory’s flanks and cantered toward the ruined fortress.
At first, the hunting was poor. While they found plenty of rabbits and small fowl, the goal today was bigger game which would sustain the manor’s residents for weeks, not days. The dearth of that sort of game made Eryn suspect the tenants were supplementing their own larders by hunting for themselves. Though doing so without their laird’s permission was illegal, Eryn could not allow anyone to starve under her leadership. For this winter, she would turn a blind eye.
But their luck turned near midday when Hugh spotted a small herd of deer in a meadow about an hour away from the estate. Under cover of the forest’s edge, the four riders fanned out, nocked their arrows, aimed, and let fly. Only Archie’s shot came close, grazing the haunches of a doe. She leapt frantically into the air and then bolted, startling the half-dozen other animals to scatter.
Hugh motioned for everyone to follow the injured deer. Eryn kicked Rory to a run, urging the big horse as fast as she dared across the meadow, soaring over a creek that materialized in the middle, and dodging back into the woods. The wind on her face was cold, numbing her cheeks. She kept her head low along Rory’s neck to avoid the lashing of leafless twigs.
Crashing hoof beats surrounded her as the men kept pace. Eryn saw the doe stumble, then regain her footing. Arrows whizzed past Eryn until one found its mark. The animal fell; her head went down and her rump flipped over it, breaking her neck.
When they reached her, Hugh hopped from his saddle first. He slit the throat to assure the little deer was dead. Then he pulled out the arrow and handed it to Archie, who stuck it back in his quiver.
“You are the hero, Archie.” Eryn grinned at the young man. “Our first big kill of the day.”
Archie blushed.
Geoffrey glowered. But he dismounted and helped Hugh lash the carcass behind the man’s saddle.
Eryn looked up at the featureless sky. “We have time to continue, I think.”
Hugh looked to the sky as well, and then at Geoff, but the constable remained silent. The big Scot walked around several trees until he found moss growing on a few. He judged the sky once again.
“Aye. I’m no’ familiar with this land, but according to where the moss grows north is there,” he paused and pointed. “And it seems we might have two or three hours of good light left.”
Geoff finally spoke. “We’ll be wanting to go north as we hunt, then.”
Hugh nodded. “North and east.”
The hunting party moved in that direction. Eryn was glad they had some success, but it wasn’t enough. Please, God, bless our efforts… I promise I’ll be nice to Geoffrey. She threw a guilty glance in that man’s direction.
Geoff turned and caught her peeking at him. Eryn gave him a smile she hoped showed friendship, but nothing more. He slowly smiled back.
As if in answer to her promise, an angry snort of warning erupted off to their right. Eryn smelt the musk of a boar—he must be close. She reined Rory to a halt and turned in her saddle, searching for movement in the dense woods.
“There!” Archie shouted, his arrow already in place.
The boar charged, then veered sharply and sprinted through the underbrush. Archie kicked his steed into full pursuit.
“Go!” Hugh bellowed and followed.
Rory had no trouble keeping pace with the other mounts and Eryn gave the gelding his head. But Geoffrey was lagging. Eryn looked back over her shoulder and tried to stifle her irritation. His courser was large, healthy and capable, but for reasons she couldn’t imagine Geoff wasn’t pushing the horse. I promised to be nice, Lord, but he is making it rather hard!
So Eryn focused on the chase, leaping over fallen logs and splashing through thinly iced-over streams. A cheer of victory heralded Archie’s success and she soon caught up to the father and son. The boar twitched on the forest floor, blood streaming from the wound in its chest. Hugh was trying to get close enough to end the animal’s misery but flailing hooves and sharp tusks held him off.
“Isn’t this just the scene!”
Eryn swiveled toward the unfamiliar voice. A chill rushed through her veins, and turned her gut to ice water. Five heavily armed guards with an impressive coat of arms stitched to their chests faced them. And they were not happy.
“Poaching on the king’s land?” The man who spoke shook his head and tsked. “I’m afraid that’s not allowed.”
“Sorry. We go’ a bit lost,” Hugh said. He sheathed his hunting dirk. “Ye’re welcome to the boar. We’ll be on our way, then. Come along, lads.”
Hugh moved to mount his horse before an arrow speared the ground at his feet and stopped him.
A burly guard lowered his bow, and the leader leaned forward. “And what about the hind on your saddle? Filthy Scottish bastards. Do you know where you are?”
Shite. Eryn knew. They were in England. With the lack of visible sun, they had gotten turned around in their directions. She suspected Hugh knew it when they got the deer. If it wasn’t for following the boar, he would have led them back toward the border.
Eryn kept her chin down, glad she had hidden her hair under a nubby hood.
Hugh spread his large hands wide. “Ye can have that as well. My sons and I do no’ want any trouble.”
“It’s too late for that,” the leader growled. “Throw your weapons on the ground.”
“But—” Another arrow pointed and threatened.
“I’d kill a Scot as soon as I’d kill a rat. Same thing in my book. But the master wants to see what we find first.” He squinted at Eryn. “What’s your name boy?”
She froze. Her eyes shifted to Hugh’s.
“These are my sons, Archie”—he pointed at the pale young man, pulling the guards’ attention—“and Aaron.”
The leader was not so easy to misdirect. He faced Eryn again. “Aaron, is it? How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” Eryn croaked.
“Hm,” he grunted. “Right, then. Dismount. All of you. Weapons on the ground. Now.”
The hunting party climbed down and stood in a huddle on the forest floor. Their wrists were bound and the three were lashed together on a rope. The boar was tied onto Rory’s saddle. As they walked away, flanked by the guards on horseback leading the three riderless mounts, Eryn saw a flash of color from the corner of her eye. Keeping her head down, she stole a look in that direction. Geoff’s back disappeared into the trees.
Lousy damned coward.
So much for being nice.
The smokehouse reeked of, well, smoke. The thick stone walls obviously had no windows, and the heavy wood door was blackened. A small vent in the peak of the rounded roof let in the only light—gray and fading.
Eryn leaned against the stones and rubbed soot on her face; Hugh told her she was too clean and that would pull suspicion and second looks. Archie helped her rebraid her hair—also smeared with soot—and tuck its length under her shirt and tunic. She pulled some strands loose around her face and chewed them off, hoping that the short wisps would further convince her captors of her masculine gender. Thank God she was tall. With big feet.
And big boots. Drew’s remembered jest punched her chest. Do not cry.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Hugh murmured yet again. “I have failed ye.”
Eryn sighed. “Hugh—stop. I don’t fault you.”
“After all ye’ve done to make a better life for us…” He shook his head and pressed his thumbs into his eyes. “Ye do no’ deserve this.”
“All ye wanted was to feed us,” Archie chimed in. It was the first thing he said since they were captured.
“You’re talking like we are dead. We are not. Not yet.” Eryn tightened her fists. “And until we are, we won’t give up.”
“No, Lady.” The room was too dark now to discern Hugh’s expression, but his tone was dismal
. “We will no’ be fed, I wouldn’t think. I suppose we should try to sleep.”
Hugh and Archie insisted that Eryn lie between them for warmth. The stone floor leeched the heat from her bones even so. Her body already ached with the hunt’s exertion and the hour-long forced run to this estate. Her belly grumbled its lack of sustenance. Her heart lurched whenever she thought of Drew. It was going to be a long winter’s night.
She could not remember ever being so miserable.
January 3, 1355
England
Drew waited inside the smith’s shop at Barnard Castle. His knee bounced with impatience as he watched the man shoe his horse. The grey stallion eyed Drew as if to chastise him for riding so hard.
The destrier’s shoe came loose the day before yesterday—the day he rode away from Eryn—and he and Kennan were forced to camp alongside the road that night in the winter’s chill. They limped to the castle yesterday, arriving as the sun’s cloud-shrouded light faded away.
As much as he wanted to continue the journey, he doubted they would leave today. It was already past noon and the shoeing was not yet accomplished.
Kennan sat next to him and handed him a mug of mulled wine. “Do ye think we’ll be on our way soon?”
Drew drank the heated wine. “No,” he grunted.
“No’ today?”
“No.”
Kennan sipped his own drink. “Tomorrow then.”
“Aye.”
The men watched the smithy heat the iron shoe until it glowed orange. He held it with long tongs and pounded it with a huge hammer. Afterwards, he plunged it into icy water until it was black again.
Like my heart.
Heated to the point of shimmering malleability, ready and eager to be formed to a new purpose. But held at a distance. Pounded mercilessly. Submerged into a cold new rigidity.
He shoved the empty mug into Kennan’s hand. “I’m going for a walk.”
Drew walked the perimeter of the castle three times. It did not make the day pass faster, but it did work off some of his anxious energy. As he embarked on a fourth round, he noticed a rider on the road approaching swiftly on a lathered horse. When the rider was about a hundred yards away, Drew squinted in disbelief—the Cob Constable?
“What the hell is he doing here?” he muttered.
The horse slowed as they entered the courtyard. Drew trotted into the enclosure behind them. Geoff slid from the saddle and his legs collapsed under him, spilling him onto the grass. He rolled to his back and stared up at Drew.
“Thank God ye’re here,” he panted. “I followed my best guess…”
Drew ignored the warnings that ricocheted inside his chest. Years of knighthood taught him to remain calm in a critical situation; panic never helped. “What’s amiss?”
“Eryn…” Geoff pulled a shaky breath.
“What about Eryn?” Drew barked.
“She’s been…she’s been…” Geoff descended into a coughing fit. “W-water…” he squeaked.
Drew nearly emptied the bucket in the constable’s face.
“Road dust,” he managed after gulping several swallows. “Sorry.”
Drew pulled back a foot to kick the man. Hard. “MacDougal! What’s happened?”
“Ca—cap—captured,” he coughed.
“By who?”
“English.”
“Why?
“Poaching.”
Drew planted his raised foot. “Poaching?” he asked, incredulous. Raiding, certainly. But poaching?
Geoff nodded. “We were hunting. We got a wee bit lost. We crossed the border, so it seems…”
“SHITE!” Drew roared. He swung his foot back again and kicked the water bucket out of Geoff’s hands. “When?”
Geoff flinched backward and his eyes rounded. “Y-yesterday.”
Drew turned toward the smith’s shed. He must claim his horse, find Kennan, and get on the road as quickly as he could.
“Drummond!”
Drew spun to stare at Geoffrey.
“Ye’ll want me to show ye where.”
He ground his teeth. “Aye.”
“And ye need to know…” he broke off in another round of coughing.
Drew’s patience had run out and was quickly accruing a debt. “What?”
“The English do no’ ken…” More damned coughing.
“What?”
Geoff wiped his mouth. “They do no’ ken she’s a woman. Yet.”
Chapter Sixteen
January 4, 1355
Eryn stretched and tried to turn over, but she was wedged between two snoring Scotsmen. Little by little she wiggled to her other side when father and son rolled in tandem and nearly rolled her with them. But she held still and was now wedged in the opposite direction. The stone floor was still hard as, well, stone. And cold. But at the least the men’s bodies assured she wasn’t freezing.
She looked up to the roof to judge the light in the vent hole. Morning was upon them. That meant their captors would take them to the master, whoever he was. And he would decree their fate.
Or—they would ignore the trio locked in their smokehouse and simply allow them to starve. Eryn wasn’t entirely certain which fate she preferred.
She worried over Liam. The boy had sustained so many losses already. After Drew left, Liam refused to come out of his room for the rest of the day. When Eryn sought him out in the schoolroom after breakfast yesterday, he wore a Roman coin on a leather thong that stretched halfway down his chest. He said Lord Andrew gave it to him and he would never take it off. Ever.
“And I will not ask you to,” Eryn assured him. After a moment she added, “I miss him, too.”
Liam looked up at her and, for the first time since his father died, there was no malice in his expression. He nodded slowly as if a decision was made, then began his schoolwork without being told. Mister Macintyre seemed as surprised as she. Walking away, Eryn wondered what the knight said to transform Liam’s attitude. Whatever it was, she hoped that the change would last.
Now, in this cold, dark, and filthy prison she prayed she wouldn’t become one more loss in young William’s life.
Metal clanked, echoing in the stone enclosure. The heavy wooden door creaked open and a basket dropped inside. The door thundered closed. More metallic reverberations assured the door was locked once more.
Archie and Hugh rolled away from Eryn. She immediately felt the cold which their bodies had sheltered her from and a shiver shook through her. What tiny comfort she experienced in the night dissipated like the steam of her breath.
Archie crossed to the basket. “Bread and water,” he said.
Hugh stood and cleared his throat. “I need to piss. I’ll use that corner over there, away from the door.”
“Yes,” Eryn whispered and turned around to give Hugh a modicum of privacy. Her face heated when she heard the stream of liquid splash into a puddle. Her mind filled with the image of Drew’s manhood when he walked naked through the bed chamber. She closed her eyes to hold onto the exquisitely painful memory while the smell of urine invaded her reverie.
Archie followed his father’s example while Eryn concentrated on dividing the bread. She took the smallest portion and drank the least amount of water. Squatting to piss with these two men in such a small space was something she could not imagine herself doing.
She did do it, however, hours later when the trio was still alone in the smokehouse. No one had spoken to them, nor offered any further comfort. Lying on the frigid stone floor again that night, she couldn’t hold back her tears.
Hugh rubbed her shoulder. “I’m sorry, my lady.”
She sniffed and rubbed her nose with a filthy hand. “What will come of Liam?”
“Jamie will see to the lad. And Macintyre. They are good men,” he said.
Eryn pulled a shuddering sigh. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked, his tone colored by surprise.
“For not telling me not to worry about that,” she answered. �
�For acknowledging that we are in a very bad position, and my fears are well-founded.”
“Oh. Aye. That.” Hugh pulled a sigh of his own. “Ye are a woman who understands things. I respect ye and do no’ see the point in covering hard things with honey.”
“I’m proud to know ye, Lady Bell,” Archie whispered.
For some reason, Hugh and Archie’s admiration made her cry even harder.
January 5, 1355
This time the smokehouse door stayed open, spilling light into the dusky dimness.
“Damn it stinks in there!” a man grumbled. “Come out, all of you—I ain’t comin’ in!”
Eryn clambered to her feet and fought the dizziness that threatened to fell her. Scant food and water left her weak. The cold left her numb; she couldn’t feel her feet. She concentrated on putting one in front of the other, and thus followed Archie outside. Hugh was close behind her.
The guard made a face and stepped back. “Filthy Scots. Come with me and don’t give me any trouble, or I’ll see you right back in there. And this time, I just might forget all about you!”
Eryn kept her head down and her hood up. She watched Archie’s feet and matched his stride. She stumbled once, but Hugh caught her with his strong grip and set her to rights. They were led into a large Hall and stood before a man in a wide, carved chair. Eryn only dared lift her gaze as high as his knees.
“What have we now?” he asked, sounding bored.
“Poachers, my lord.”
“Oh? Did we confiscate the game?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What did they kill?”
“A doe and a boar.”
“Excellent.” There came a long pause.
Eryn contemplated the man’s tall leather boots. They were black and shined, like Drew’s. Shite. Her heartbeat hitched every time she thought of him.
