As if in answer, the clear tones of a bell came floating over the downs.
Alaun swore. Cricklade Priory. Once behind religious walls, Eloise would be beyond his reach, at least temporarily. As an excessively wealthy widow, she had only to demand sanctuary to be welcomed with open arms. The church, very fond of the wealth of widows, would oppose any move he made to retrieve her.
His curses turned vitriolic. He had to catch her before she reached the Priory—or face the possibility of losing her.
*
Eloise also heard the prime bell. She’d gained the crest of the downs bare minutes before to find an ancient track crossing her path. Reining in Jacquenta, her palfrey, she had sat in indecision, uncertain whether to follow the track, hoping it would lead to convent or monastery, or follow her instincts and head north. Now, she swung Jacquenta to the northwest and followed the sweet sound of the bell.
Some way ahead, the dark shadow of a forest lined the edge of the downs, directly in her path.
Resisting the temptation to go faster, for she had no idea how far away her chosen sanctuary lay, Eloise held Jacquenta to a steady pace. Going far enough south to convince any watchful pickets that she had, indeed, taken that direction had slowed her, but the deception had been necessary. She couldn’t outrun Montisfryn.
Blinking, she straightened in her saddle, easing the muscles in her back. She had had no sleep, too consumed by the need to flee. When she’d left the horses in the middle of the night, her plans had been simple and clear. After meeting with Montisfryn in the moonlight, they’d been in chaos. Bringing an immediate end to their association had become imperative, overriding all other concerns.
After stripping off her cote and refastening her chemise with shaking fingers, she’d taken to her bed—not to sleep, but to search for a route to safety. Eventually, exhausted, she’d prayed to St Catherine for aid. And the bell for lauds had sounded, its deep tones rolling over the camp, coming over the downs from the north.
She’d left as early as she’d dared, sorry to have to leave Jenni without a word. After due consideration, she’d left Matt as well; he did not have a horse, and she couldn’t order him to steal one. She trusted Montisfryn to either take care of the pair, or send them after her. She knew well enough that he would follow, but once behind religious walls, it would be foolish to meet with him again.
The thought depressed her, a fact she recognized and stoically accepted. It didn’t deter her. Safety, she had long ago learned, was not found in the arms of powerful men.
Forest, dark and dense, loomed before her. A bridle path continued, much in the direction she wished to go. Eloise halted, misliking the stillness beneath the trees and her inability to see ahead. But the bridle path was her route; on either side, the forest stretched, apparently unending. Looking back, she scanned the gently rolling landscape. And saw no one. With a sigh, she turned Jacquenta toward the path.
She’d escaped.
The sudden rumbling of the ground, shuddering beneath the impact of many horses’ hooves, gave that assumption the lie. Startled, Eloise glanced back. Previously hidden by a dip in the downs, a body of horsemen exploded into sight, thundering toward her, only minutes away.
She had no difficulty recognizing the figure at their head.
With a breathless curse, she swung Jacquenta onto the path and clapped her heels to the mare’s sides. Half-spooked, the mare flew down the narrow trail.
Eloise leaned low over Jacquenta’s neck, urging the mare on. The trees blurred as the path twisted—there were no junctions, no minor paths, nowhere she could hide. Then she heard a shout, not from behind but from the side. A minute later, the path abruptly opened into a clearing.
She was in difficulties from the first, her headlong flight impeded by men and baggage; she had to fight to keep Jacquenta from stumbling. Momentum carried them on; Jacquenta pranced, tossing her head, tugging at the reins.
Wrestling the panicky animal to a snorting, quivering halt, Eloise dragged in a quick breath and looked around. Fifty or more unkempt men in padded jerkins and crude, rusty mail surrounded her. Some stood rubbing sleep from their eyes; others, their faces alight, advanced on her.
Inwardly, she recoiled. Before she could react, one of the men, a beefy, brawny ape, lunged and caught Jacquenta’s bridle. Eloise gasped and fought to jerk the mare free; Jacquenta tried to rear, but the man held her easily.
To Eloise’s amazement, he grinned insolently up at her, his close-set eyes taking liberties no knight would dare.
“Welcome, lady. And tis truly most welcome you are.”
Sniggers greeted this pronouncement; ignoring them, and her welling fear, Eloise drew herself up. “Loose my horse, knave!”
The man roared with laughter. Piggy eyes leered at her. “He said you wert a likely enough lass, but with some right starchy ways. I’m a-thinking you won’t be a-feeling quite so starchy after you’ve laid those long legs wide for me ‘n’ the boys.” One ham-like hand rose to her thigh.
Eloise slashed down hard with her riding crop and fought to regain the reins.
The man’s lecherous grin turned into a vicious snarl. “Like it rough, do you? Only too happy to oblige.”
He reached for her; she slashed again, this time at his face. He weaved—too late; the quirt cut into a fleshy jowl. The man roared; he grabbed her hand and yanked hard. She swayed, almost falling from her saddle. Panic seared her; she gripped tight with her knees, using her full weight to resist. At the edge of her vision, she saw men closing in.
There was a shout; the men halted, looking around.
The thunder of hoof beats rolled across the clearing—the outlaws raced for their weapons.
An explosion of sound—shouts, howls, and curses—nearly deafened Eloise. Then a savage war-cry rent the air, immediately followed by the clash of steel on steel.
Eloise all but wilted with relief. Montisfryn was there.
Both she and her attacker stilled. Outlaws streamed past, running to support their fellows. The brute holding Jacquenta’s bridle, apparently their leader, urged them on.
Squinting through the dust engulfing the melee, Eloise spotted Montisfryn’s tawny mane. Roland was beside him, both raining blows on the outlaws surrounding them. Their troop had drawn close, packed tightly together; although mounted they were heavily outnumbered.
She was not yet safe. The entire outlaw band stood between her and Montisfryn.
The outlaw leader saw that, too. With a savage snarl, he tugged hard at her hand.
She hung on, grimly resisting. Muscles straining, she clamped her thighs to the saddle skirts. Jacquenta backed and sidled, tossing her head against the brute’s hold. With one hand on the mare’s bridle and the other locked about Eloise’s hand, he couldn’t focus his strength to pull her down.
He realized as much and bellowed to a lanky youth skulking about the rear of the fight. “Here! Help me pull the bitch off.”
The youth hesitated.
“Fool! To me! We can use her as hostage to make them surrender.”
Surrender? And then what? Eloise shoved the thought aside. The youth came up on her other side; she lashed out with her free hand, catching him a sharp blow. He cursed foully. Ducking and weaving, he eventually caught her hand. She tugged—he tugged back. As did the brute who held her other hand. After a moment of crazed see-sawing, the outlaw leader cursed.
“No, you fool! Push her!”
Comprehension dawned in the youth’s pale eyes. Still gripping her hand, mercilessly squeezing her fingers, he reached for her knee.
Eloise gasped; as the youth wrenched her thigh away from the saddle, the leader seized the opportunity to shift his hold and savagely twist her quirt from her grasp.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him raise it. Grabbing the front of her saddle, hips and thighs burning, she fought to deny the youth the leverage to tip her off.
Her quirt whistled through the air, slicing down on her fingers, gripped white on the sadd
lebow. She choked back a cry.
The youth bent, setting his shoulder below her knee; any moment he would dislodge her.
Desperate, she glanced up—Montisfryn wheeled in, his face contorted in a ferocious snarl. His sword descended with unforgiving force, shearing the youth’s shoulder from his body.
Blood flew—Eloise felt the youth’s fingers lose their grip, then slip away.
Before she could think, Montisfryn’s left arm came around her, dragging her hard against him, locking Jacquenta against his stallion. He half-stood, twisting in his stirrups, his bloody sword whistling in a wide arc.
Clutching at the arm wrapped protectively about her, Eloise turned her head in time to see the outlaw leader, a long knife in his raised hand, die.
With a shake, Montisfryn freed his sword. He sank back into his saddle, easing his hold on her.
Eloise turned; she met his eyes.
He blinked, and she saw the blankness behind the savage mask. As if he’d suppressed all his emotions and was now lost without them.
“I’m all right.” She ignored her burning hand.
The golden gaze focused, then he nodded. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
He released her as he spoke and immediately wheeled his horse, his face resuming the ruthless, merciless, deadly mask of battle.
Only then did she see the danger that still faced them.
How he’d managed to reach her at all she couldn’t comprehend. The fighting still raged, with his force bottled in tight where the bridle path opened into the clearing, while he and she were hard by the far side of the space, dense trees a wall at their backs.
Now the outlaws had two fronts on which to fight; like their dead leader, many chose the easier option. In increasing numbers, they left the battle with Montisfryn’s men to concentrate on likelier prey—a single knight defending the woman whose life would buy their freedom.
Jacquenta was quivering. Tightening her reins, Eloise watched as outlaws, slinking like jackals, closed about them in a half-circle, wary of Montisfryn’s long sword. Abruptly, he drew another blade, a short-sword, from his saddle.
Startled by the sudden hiss, the outlaws wavered. Then, as if embarrassed by their childish start, they brandished their weapons, and with blood-curdling cries, charged.
Three fell to the first sweep of Montisfryn’s sword, but then they closed. His deadly blades kept them before him, but for how long he could successfully defend against all the blows aimed at him Eloise didn’t know. Forgotten, she watched, her heart in her mouth, hands tight on the reins. Jacquenta snorted and sidled. Instinct prodded Eloise to ease along the clearing’s edge, but Montisfryn’s orders rang in her head; she held Jacquenta steady where he’d left her, a bare foot to the rear of his stallion’s rump.
A heavy club was swung, then released—it struck Montisfryn on his shoulder. Eloise winced, but he barely seemed to notice. His mail saved him again and again as he caught the outlaws’ wild slashes on his arms. The hordes about him howled in fury—more came running.
Then a battle cry sounded over a mighty crash, followed by cries of anguish. Peering past Montisfryn, Eloise saw Roland literally ride through the press, charging through the human wall. He slewed his black around to come up on Montisfryn’s left, then another knight followed Roland’s lead.
The outlaws wavered. Shifty eyes darted, searching for ways out.
But there was to be no escape.
Trapped behind Montisfryn and Roland, Eloise saw little of what followed. She did see Rovogatti, sitting his horse at the clearing’s edge, a crossbow in his hands. After an incredulous instant, she recognized Matt on the horse alongside, handing over the bolts Rovogatti fired.
When the fury eventually died, she was stunned to see that Montisfryn’s men numbered only ten. Yet more than fifty outlaws lay dead in the clearing.
Montisfryn looked about; she saw his shoulders lift as he drew in a deep breath. Then he handed his dripping sword to one of his knights. “Have we any survivors?”
Rovogatti was checking the bodies as he retrieved his bolts. He pointed to a bundle of rags under a tree. “Only him.” Then, as if to excuse this lapse, he added, “He didn’t fight.”
“Bring him here.”
Alaun didn’t move, nor did Roland, leaving Eloise trapped behind them, shielded from the carnage.
The rags proved to be one of the mercenaries too fevered to do more than weave on his feet. Alaun waited until the man was hauled before him. “Who sent you?”
The mercenary spat. “Sir Roger Barnabas. Down Cholderton way.”
Alaun heard the hiss of Eloise’s indrawn breath. “One of your father’s vassals?” His tone made it clear it was not to the cowering man that he spoke.
“Nay.” She exhaled. “But I have met the man. He’s a local knight.”
Alaun looked again at the mercenary. “Say on. What was your purpose here?”
“We was to grab the lady.”
Eloise couldn’t bear it; she leaned forward in her saddle and peered around Montisfryn. After one glance at the human litter in the clearing, she confined her gaze to the man standing before the gray stallion.
The mercenary saw her and nodded. “Her. Seems tis common knowledge about Sir Roger’s parts that she sometimes rides alone, but never far from her father’s keep. Sir Roger heard as how she was headed along with your train and sent us to keep watch. Twas thought likely the wench would wander off. Then we was to grab her and take her to Sir Roger.”
His words sent a chill through Eloise; Montisfryn didn’t move. Staring at the ragged mercenary, standing gazing up at Montisfryn’s face, she saw the man’s eyes glaze.
“Hang him.”
Closing her eyes, she drew back. The man was dragged away. Within seconds, she was being led out of the clearing, Jacquenta’s reins in Montisfryn’s mailed fist. Matt gazed reprovingly at her as she passed.
Without a word, Montisfryn handed her her reins when they gained the path. The rest of his men fell in behind.
As they broke from the cover of the trees and into the open air, Eloise dragged in a deep breath. Faintness threatened. She quelled it—it was over; she was safe. She held herself proudly, Jacquenta pacing neatly beside Montisfryn’s gray. One glance at Montisfryn’s face confirmed that further trials awaited her, but he said not a word, his silence so vibrant with suppressed fury that she dared not broach it. They reached the old track on the crest of the downs and, crossing it, started down the long slope.
Beside her, wracked with rage, Alaun didn’t trust himself to speak. There was a storm of emotions roiling inside him and she was responsible for putting it there. Never in his life had he felt such fury, but it was fear that had brought him to the edge of his control—fear for her. It had yet to recede, despite the fact she was safe beside him.
Angrily, he glanced at her. Her composure had held throughout her self-inflicted ordeal; her expression remained serene, but her cheeks were unnaturally pale. His gaze fell to the red welt marring the backs of her fingers. Concern welled; ruthlessly, he squelched it. She would not escape his ire. But he could not yet speak. Instead, he rode on, mentally rehearsing the words he would heap on her head once his temper was safely tethered.
The column was already moving by the time they reached it. He cast an expert eye along the train, then led the way forward. Once in position at the column’s head, he rode on through the morning.
In silence.
Eloise knew well enough to keep her place beside him. Roland remained on her other side, but slightly behind, doubtless holding himself ready to drop back should his cousin decide to have private converse with her. Awaiting that eventuality, she grew increasingly tense.
By the time they stopped for the midday halt, Montisfryn’s tension had infected her.
He lifted her down. “Wait here.”
He waited for no acknowledgment, turning instead to his sergeants. Eloise folded her arms and looked at the sky, keenly aware of the anticipation riding, not j
ust her nerves, but those of all in the train behind her. Born in a castle, she’d never known real privacy; she was not the least bothered that by now everyone would know their lord was overdue to berate the lady traveling with him.
What did bother her was that he’d yet to show any signs of getting to it. How could she apologize if he didn’t give her the chance?
Increasingly irritated, she studied their surroundings. The dusty road led onward, bordered by fields. Just ahead on one side stood a small copse.
Hard fingers closed about her elbow.
“I would have words with you, lady.”
The deep growl required no answer. She acquiesced with what meekness she could muster. He marched her into the copse, not stopping until they reached a small clearing well away from, and out of sight of, the road.
His insistence on such absolute privacy puzzled her—until she recalled that most would consider him perfectly justified in beating her. Not harshly, but in chastisement. There was no question, even in her mind, that she’d done more than enough to deserve it—a good spanking was often recommended as greatly benefitting ladies who showed themselves too willful.
An unnervingly primitive sensation swept through her.
Stopping by a log, he released her. Head high, spine stiff, she quivered.
He scowled. “Sit, lady.”
Swiftly, she obeyed, silently exhaling.
He paced the few steps across the clearing, then halted. His back to her, fists on his hips, he gazed at the trees. “Your actions this morn, lady, were inexcusable.” His tone was harsh; he made no effort to hide his anger. “You were made into my care—placed under my protection—you had no right to seek thus to remove yourself.”
“Nay, lord.” Hands clasped in her lap, head meekly bowed, she tried for a placating tone.
“The Prior of Cricklade would have been none too pleased to find an army before his gates.”
She glanced at his rigid back. “Is that what you would have done?”
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