She heard Rannulf offer his concern regarding Mora and vow to see Lady Ailénor well cared for. Guilt assailed her further, but Rosalynd was already in the process of climbing into the litter assisted by Gilbert.
The horses started forward, and the moments stretched out. Ailénor’s stomach knotted along with her nerves, as she bore each moment, fearful of discovery. When the small escort passed at last through the gates undelayed and headed north, Ailénor released her breath and shared a small, victorious laugh with Rosalynd.
The party continued at a comfortable pace, the early-morning sun still rising in the east. Late afternoon they closed upon Kingsclere. Before they came into sight of the defense works surrounding the estate, they stopped, and Ailénor descended from the litter. One of Gilbert’s men gave over his horse to her, then joined Rosalynd.
As Ailénor mounted the animal, Gilbert smiled. “I see we should have brought you a larger steed, my lady, but the mare has plenty of heart. Shall we ride?”
Ailénor waved to Rosalynd in parting, grateful for her help and amazed at her artfulness in conceiving and implementing so clever a deception. Rosalynd’s gift for intrigue was truly astonishing.
Ailénor followed Gilbert’s lead, heading north for Silchester. They pressed their animals for speed. The trip to Kingsclere had already brought them three quarters of the way to their destination. At Silchester they would stop overnight and, at first light, take the road east for Lundenburh.
They continued on at an even pace, making good progress over the next few hours. Gilbert looked back, as he often did, checking on Ailénor and casting her a smile. But this time his smile stilled, then faded as his brows pulled together. Several more times he snatched glances past his shoulder.
“A horseman,” he called out.
Ailénor took a glance back as well and beheld a dark-cloaked figure on an equally dark horse. He maintained his distance for a time, but as they came upon a forested area, the horseman whipped his steed and began to close the space between them.
“Ride, my lady!” Gilbert shouted. “Silchester is not far ahead. The man looks to be a brigand.”
Ailénor leaned into her horse, requiring no further encouragement. The ground blurred beneath her as the thunder of the horses’ hooves filled her ears.
The horseman gained steadily upon them. Gilbert dropped back, allowing Ailénor to move ahead, then drew his sword to protect her.
Ailénor raced on at his bidding. Casting a glance back, she caught the flash of metal as the horseman bared a knife from his belt. She looked again and saw him move along Gilbert’s left side, placing him at a disadvantage for Gilbert wielded his sword right-handed.
Before Gilbert could turn to take his first stroke, the horseman hurled his knife with deadly precision and caught him in the back.
Gilbert wrenched in pain, twisting in his saddle and taking his horse down with him.
The horseman lashed his mount forward, centering the full of his interest on Ailénor.
Her blood ran cold. Digging her heels into her horse’s flanks, Ailénor strained the animal to its limits.
»«
Garreth rode fast and furious along the road to Silchester.
On his return to Andover, he had discovered Ailénor gone. Mora disassembled under his forthright questions, then confessed in a flood of tears to the women’s collusion.
She and her sister still had much to explain. But now he bore down on his steed, anger rolling through him that Ailénor should leave the safety of Andover and place herself in peril.
He was also angry with himself for not foreseeing this event and having left her to her own resourcefulness.
He galloped on, his thoughts in a boil, fixed so intently ahead that at first he did not see the bulk in the road or the horse grazing off to the side.
Garreth hard-reined his horse, realizing ‘twas a man sprawled facedown, a knife projecting from his back.
»«
Ailénor drew on all her skills. Gilbert had been right. The mare had heart. Though showing signs of tiring, when asked she put on an extra burst of speed.
Ailénor managed to keep ahead of the horseman. She flattened herself against the horse’s neck, calling encouragement in her ear. But for all the horse’s valiant efforts, the horseman continued to narrow the distance.
“Come on, girl,” Ailénor cried, then stole a glance back.
Her breath sealed in her throat as a new terror appeared — a second horseman.
»«
Garreth drove his mount hard as he held Grimbold and Ailénor in view. Thank God Ailénor was the skilled horsewoman she was, or Grimbold would have overtaken her by now.
Gradually the distance diminished, and Garreth converged on the two. Pulling alongside Grimbold, he unsheathed his sword.
Grimbold cast Garreth a black look. Yanking the reins of his horse, he drove his beast into Garreth’s bay, forcing him toward the edge of the raised road. But as the horses collided, the bay stumbled slightly, jolting Garreth forward in his saddle.
Grabbing a fistful of mane, Garreth held fast and reseated himself. The bay fell back, provoked and fractious, its ears flattened. As Grimbold lashed his horse in pursuit of Ailénor, however, Garreth charged the bay onward. With no more than a touch to its flanks, the horse reached out and lengthened its stride.
»«
From the corner of Ailénor’s eye she saw the dark shape of the horseman move alongside her. She swallowed her panic and urged the mare on, fearing the intrepid little animal might drop beneath her at any moment.
Daring a glance at her assailant, she met his small, hard eyes, cold and gleaming. Her heart lurched as she recognized Grimbold.
Tightening her grip on the reins, she jabbed her heels into the mare, but the horse was spent. Grimbold began to reach for her reins. Just then, the second horseman gained on them.
Ailénor’s pulse pounded in her veins. Certain ‘twas Wimund, she snatched a sideward glance. To her astonishment she found Garreth bearing down on Grimbold. He advanced steadily forward, the head and shoulders of his horse moving in line with the hindquarters of Grimbold’s.
Ailénor’s heart swelled with joy at the sight of Garreth, but her joy turned to horror as Grimbold veered, ramming his mount into the bay. In a blur she saw the shock and quiver of horseflesh as the beasts slammed together. Their legs instantly entangled — hind leg with foreleg — causing them to spill. Screaming in pain and outrage, the horses plunged from the road, rolling in a chaos of hooves and legs and taking their riders with them.
»«
Garreth heard Ailénor’s scream as he flew free of the tumult and crashed to the ground, the wind leaving his lungs in a painful rush.
Dazed, he lay unmoving a moment, vaguely aware of a sticky wetness on his forehead where a hoof had grazed him.
Close by, the horses struggled frantically to right themselves and climbed to their feet. Through their stir of legs, Garreth spotted Grimbold thrusting to his own feet and seizing upon the sword where it lay gleaming in the dirt.
Before Garreth could rise, Grimbold came at him, slicing the blade in a downward arc. Garreth pivoted onto his left hip, feeling the whoosh of air as the sword slashed behind him and bit into the ground. Without wasting an instant, he rolled back and locked his legs with Grimbold’s. Blocking the shin of one and kicking into the back of the knee of the other, he took him off balance.
Grimbold pitched forward, dropping the sword and barely catching himself with his hands. As he groped for the hilt, Garreth hard-booted him in the side and sent him sprawling.
Garreth thrust upward and grabbed for the sword. But before he gained his feet, Grimbold hurled himself at Garreth. Together they thudded to the ground, rolling into the midst of the jittery horses and losing the sword once more as they came apart. The animals shied, snorting and stepping nervously, white showing in their eyes.
Garreth scrambled to his feet and flung himself at Grimbold who had not yet risen. But even as
he did, Grimbold slipped a knife from his boot. Seeing the flash of metal, Garreth twisted aside and took the impact on his shoulder.
Grimbold immediately sprang atop him, aiming the blade for Garreth’s heart.
Garreth trapped Grimbold’s wrist, forcing it back. But Grimbold moved his other hand over the knife’s hilt as well and put the full of his weight behind the blade.
Sorely disadvantaged, Garreth’s arms trembled as he pitted his strength against Grimbold’s. Muscles straining, he slowly angled the knife away from his heart and off to the side. Slackening his hold abruptly, Garreth caused Grimbold to fall forward and drive the knife into the ground just above his shoulder.
Grimbold snarled and started to rise, but Garreth drew up his feet and caught Grimbold in the abdomen. Using the strength of his legs, Garreth heaved Grimbold off of him.
Grimbold yelped as he landed on his spine and rolled in a backward somersault, stopping a short space apart of the horses. He clawed to his feet, fury in his eyes as he fixed them on Garreth.
Garreth grabbed for the knife and pressed to his feet. As he did, the glint of steel caught his eyes, coming from the grass between the skittish animals.
Grimbold, too, spied the sword. Without heed, he shouted at the horses and shoved venomously at the one blocking his way. It capered, moving aside and opening a path to the sword where it lay by the bay’s hindquarters.
Garreth drove toward Grimbold. But Grimbold, seeing his advance, lunged for the blade and startled the horse. The bay kicked back, catching Grimbold straight on in the face with both iron-shod hooves. As Grimbold pitched to the ground, the panicked animal trampled back over him.
When Garreth reached him, Grimbold lay twisted, his neck and head bent at an awkward angle, his eyes staring open but unseeing toward the sky.
Ailénor urged her horse from the road, her heart still battering against her breast as she moved toward Garreth. He stood over the body, heaving for breath, but catching sight of her, he stayed her with an upheld hand before she drew too near the grisly sight.
“There is little time,” he panted. “I will see to Grimbold if you can calm the horses.”
Ailénor nodded, glad to be useful. Dismounting, she moved slowly toward the animals, speaking in soft, soothing tones. When they allowed her close enough, she gathered their reins.
Garreth, meanwhile, wrapped a blanket about Grimbold’s mangled body and lashed it onto the horse that had been his. After checking the bay for injuries, he mounted and caught up the reins of Grimbold’s horse and turned southward.
“Come. We must ride apace.”
Ailénor reined her horse, believing he intended to return to Andover and her short-lived freedom to be at an end.
Garreth’s brow darkened. “Do you tarry while a man lies bleeding on the road, presumably on your behalf?”
“Gilbert?” she gasped in surprise. “He is alive?”
Garreth leveled her a forbearing look. “We shall discuss your association with this Gilbert at a later time. For now, we must tend to him before his condition worsens. I could do little for him, pressed as I was to come to your aid. Now let us reach him before he no longer has need of us.”
Ailénor and Garreth traveled the distance in silence. Mercifully Gilbert still lived, though he suffered considerable pain. Ailénor assisted Garreth in dressing and binding his wounds.
“Can you ride?” Garreth asked Gilbert when they finished. He gave a weak nod in affirmation, and Garreth looked to Ailénor. “We cannot move him far. Silchester lies nearest. We shall ride there for tonight and discuss the matter of this folly tomorrow.”
Judging by the fine lines raying his eyes and the tension about his mouth, Ailénor realized how thoroughly upset Garreth was by the incident. He had every right to be, she reflected as they mounted once more. Her escape had wrought disaster.
Garreth took it upon himself to lead the horse bearing Grimbold, while Ailénor offered to guide Gilbert’s horse. Heading north, they progressed apace toward Silchester.
Chapter 11
In queenly splendor, Silchester crowned the soft breast of a hill, her high, towered walls gilded gold in the setting sun. She reigned over a pleasant but empty landscape, a mantle of green and a wealth of jewel-bright flowers spread at her feet.
As the small party approached the city, Ailénor’s interest drew to the thin stone slabs raised alongside the road. Letters, numerals, and decorative medallions incised their surfaces. She tossed a questioning glance to Garreth.
“Grave markers,” he informed before she could ask. “Roman. Like Winchester, they built Silchester centuries ago. ‘Twas their custom to bury their dead outside the walls.” His gaze traveled to the horse behind him and its lifeless burden. “‘Twould seem we need continue the practice. I know of a man in the city who can see it done.”
Garreth offered no further comment as he directed his attention ahead to the south gate and its bastions. Ailénor looked to Gilbert. He appeared pale and much weakened.
“Hold fast, friend. We shall see to your care and comfort directly.”
Urging her mare forward, Ailénor gave her interest to the sturdy walls and defense works surrounding Silchester. ‘Twas eerily quiet. No soldiers lined the ramparts or manned the watchtowers as they did at Winchester. Nor was there a bustling settlement outside the city or crowds of people flocking about the gates.
She withheld any comment as she followed Garreth’s lead onto the railed, wooden bridge. Guiding her mount and Gilbert’s across the center of the structure, she kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead and away from the yawning ditch below. Gaining the opposite side, she passed beneath the gate’s double archway and through impressively thick walls.
Inside the city the streets stretched straight and broad in the Roman fashion, reminding Ailénor of Winchester’s. But unlike Winchester’s, they stood choked with weeds. And empty.
Garreth continued on, seemingly untroubled by these details. Ailénor glanced left and right, then started at the sight of crumbling buildings and vacant fields, overrun with brambles and bushes.
“Is Silchester a place of the living or the dead?” she muttered aloud, causing Garreth to look back.
“Forgive me, Ailénor. I neglected to warn you. The city has been abandoned for centuries.”
Ailénor skimmed another glance over the shells of stone and mortar. They stood in various states of ruin, some still roofed with tiles, most only fragments of walls.
“I do not understand, she said as they turned onto an adjoining road westward. At the same moment a woman appeared in the doorway of one of the hovels.
“Silchester’s inhabitants fled or were killed during the Saxon invasions,” Garreth explained, slowing his horse to allow Ailénor to come alongside him. “The other cities suffered like fates and were deserted as well.”
They picked their way along the ill-kept road, passing the remains of a small temple, raised on a marble platform, its once-colonnaded porch now a ghostly file of bleached and broken pillars.
Ailénor looked to Garreth. “Did not the Saxons occupy the cities?”
He shook his head. “They seemed wholly averse to dwelling in the open and established their villages off tracks in the woodlands. ‘Twas centuries before the cities were reinhabited. Silchester, however, has remained forsaken to this day.”
Ailénor tilted her head. “Yet Winchester flourishes.”
“Winchester enjoys ready access to water. Silchester has none. Still, the main roads converge here. Armies, pilgrims, wayfarers, and such must pass through her streets to join other routes — in particular, the one to Lundenburh.”
The road ended, abutting another. Once more, they turned northward. Here and there among the ruins, Ailénor spied small cookfires and people clustered about them.
“Are those travelers, then? Pilgrims?”
Garreth followed her gaze. “Mayhap. But one must be wary of thieves or wantons waiting to plague the unsuspecting or attach themselves to passing
troops.”
Ailénor remembered the woman in the doorway.
At her frown, Garreth smiled. “Come. Silchester does boast a few establishments — to point, a stable and an inn. We will see to Gilbert’s needs and the horses’ care and, with luck, find suitable lodgings for the night.”
Seeing more fires and figures sprinkled among the rubble, she sincerely hoped so.
Prodding the horses to pick up their pace, they proceeded past the relic of a once grand and sprawling complex and turned west again. After progressing a short distance, Garreth turned off the road and led them into a spacious, if scrubby, courtyard dotted with sky-blue succory and bright yellow tansy.
Ailénor ran her gaze along the aged edifice that surrounded the yard on three sides. It rose two levels high and possessed a covered walkway all the way around. Only one wing appeared in good repair, and ‘twas here Garreth directed them. Dismounting, he moved to her side.
“Stay with Gilbert. I will locate the innkeeper and bring help.”
With that, Garreth disappeared inside, returning minutes later with a stout, bearded man and two helpers. They hastened to Gilbert’s aid and helped him from his mount. The younger men carried Gilbert inside, while the older man stepped to the horse bearing Grimbold’s body. Garreth and he spoke in low tones, then seemed to come to some agreement. Taking the horse by the reins, the man led the animal away.
Garreth returned to Ailénor. “That was Ebrard, the innkeeper. He and his sons will attend to Gilbert and care for him until he is able to travel back to his estate. They will also bury Grimbold. In recompense, I have given them Grimbold’s horse.”
Garreth raised his hands to Ailénor. She leaned toward him and allowed him to lift her down from her mare.
“Will we stay here tonight?” she asked, hopeful, having no desire to sleep in the open among weeds and ruins.
“Nay, I fear not. The inn is full, as it commonly is, with three men to a bed. A space is being made for Gilbert in the loft, but there is no suitable place for a lady.”
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 24
