The Stolen Bride

by Susan Spencer Paul

  “Just as I am so far beneath you now, who will one day be Lord Renfrow, and master of Vellaux.” She turned to look at him. “How are these things decided, Kayne?” she asked. “It seems as if it must all be set in stone, yet ’tis not at all.” She lowered her gaze. “But three months past we knew who we were, yet now ’tis all a muddle. I would have married you then and lived happily at the smithy.”

  “Your father never would have allowed it,” Kayne told her. “I was a commoner then.”

  She looked up at him. “You were Kayne,” she said fiercely, “and I loved you as fully as I love you now. I would have given all I possessed to be the wife of Kayne the Unknown.”

  “Your father would not allow it,” he repeated, “and I would not, either.”

  Sofia set both hands to her head and made a sound of complete aggravation. When Kayne tried to take her in his arms she furiously pushed him away.

  “God help me if I ever come to discern men!” she shouted at him. “Do you not understand what I am trying to tell you?”

  Clearly bewildered, he shook his head and said, “Nay,” only enraging her the more.

  “It does not matter to me where we live, or if we are truly wed, or if you are of the knighthood. Once, I thought those things all most important, but truly they are not.” She lowered her hands slowly. “I cannot bear to see you unhappy, Kayne. And ’tis far worse knowing that I am the cause of it. If you’d never known me, you would yet be at Wirth in your smithy, living in your pleasant dwelling, content with your life and at peace. Whatever it is now that you require for your happiness, I will agree to it, even if it means that we must run off and live as strangers to the world, in whatever manner you choose. Only tell me, Kayne, and I will gladly do your bidding. But do not be a knight or a lord for my sake alone. Can you not see how wretched we shall both be if you do? You will come to hate me—”

  He took a step forward. “Never, Sofia.”

  “—and I will come to hate myself.”

  “My lord!”

  They turned as Gwillym came striding through the trees. He bowed first to Kayne, then to Sofia.

  “Forgive me, my lord, but Sir Senet has requested your immediate attention. Some of Lord Renfrow’s men have not yet arrived, and he fears that they may have lost their way upon the last turn toward the east.”

  “Damn,” Kayne muttered. “I should have taken better care of my father’s men.” He looked at Sofia, saying, “We will finish this later, mistress.” To Gwillym he commanded, “Do not leave Mistress Sofia alone in the forest. Senet will want to leave this place in another half hour. Make certain she is back in the column and made comfortable in her carriage before that time.”

  Gwillym made another bow. “Aye, my lord.”

  Without another word or look, Kayne strode away, and Sofia watched until she could see him no more.

  “Men,” she said aloud, “are the most trying of all God’s creatures.”

  Gwillym gave her a beguiling smile. “Of a certainty, my lady. Though I pray you will not find it amiss in me if I say that I have ever found women to be the more wearying among the two sexes. Even the most beautiful and delightful among them can be troubling.”

  Sofia sighed and shook her head, finally looking at him when it was no longer possible to see any sign of Kayne’s blond head weaving through the forest trees.

  “I think you must have little trouble at all in regard to women, Gwillym,” she told him. “You are far too handsome to be much plagued.”

  “But I am,” he countered. “Since I have gone to Lomas to serve Sir Senet, I have fallen in love with seven different maids—and each as pretty and charming as the next. Though none, I fear, can approach your loveliness, Mistress Sofia. You are without peer among every lady I have ever known.”

  Sofia was hard-pressed not to laugh at such false gallantry, but she had well learned, from the days she had spent in Gwillym’s company, just how smooth tongued he could be. She did not pity the woman who finally won his heart, for he would lead her in a merry chase all the days of their lives.

  “I feel very sorry for these maids,” she told him chidingly, “for ’tis clear that you care for none of them, else you’d not so openly divide your affections among them.”

  His smile became angelic. “But, mistress, there is more than enough to satisfy them all. And I am diligent to divide equally, so that none is more—or less—satisfied than any other.”

  His words had the desired effect of making Sofia’s cheeks heat with embarrassment, and at this, he laughed.

  She pressed her lips together and looked at him with full reproof.

  “You are no chivalrous man, Gwillym. I will write to your father in Wales and tell him the full of it, I vow.”

  This made him laugh the more. “He is the one who taught me how best to deal with women,” he told her, grinning widely. “He would only receive such a missive with joy. But, come—” he held his hand out to her “—I will vex you no more, lest Sir Kayne hear of it and knock me senseless. Do you wish to walk a bit farther before we return? Or would it better please you to make our way back to the others, so that you may rest in the carriage?”

  The idea of bumping along in the carriage upon such muddy roads for another fifteen miles before stopping made Sofia want to groan aloud, though she knew that every man in the column would give much to trade places with her, for at least she was warm and dry and comfortable within Lord and Lady Lomas’s fine carriage.

  “Please,” she said, “let us walk apace for a few minutes more, if ’tis possible.”

  He set the hand she extended upon his arm, and said, “With every pleasure, mistress.”

  Sofia could not later remember how far they had walked, or what they had talked of. Gwillym was a pleasant, practiced, well-educated companion who conversed readily on almost every topic, and she seemed to recall that he had attempted to divert her thoughts from the heated words she had just finished sharing with Kayne. She did know that they had slowly moved in the opposite direction of Kayne and the others for several minutes, and could no longer hear the sounds of men or horses. And she remembered vividly that they had been in the midst of laughing over one of Gwillym’s foolish jests when the arrow came whirring through the trees.

  Neither of them saw it, and the warning sound it made was so brief before it struck that they could not have avoided it. One moment Sofia was laughing and preparing to make some tart comment in response to Gwillym’s jest, and the next he had been jerked back, as if struck by a fist, his own laughter stopped with a grunt and a sharply uttered “oof.” Sofia was jerked back, too, her hand yet grasping his arm, and it took a moment before she was able to collect herself and realize that Gwillym had fallen to the ground. His face was as shocked as she knew her own must be, and one hand groped blindly to touch the arrow that now protruded from his chest. Blood seeped in a rapidly growing circle beneath his tunic.

  “Gwillym!” she cried, falling to her knees beside him.

  His bloodied hand left the arrow and pushed at her, and his handsome face, already contorted with pain, filled with sudden, intense panic.

  “Run!” he shouted furiously at the top of his lungs, shoving at her, unwittingly bloodying her surcoat. “Run, Sofia!”

  She obeyed almost without thinking, jumping to her feet and racing back in the direction of the camp, ignoring the pain that shot through her body at the rapid movement. Behind her, she heard the unmistakable sounds of many booted feet growing rapidly nearer. Heart pounding, she strove to run at a faster pace, but she was clumsy and unsure of her direction. If she could but get close enough to Kayne, he would hear her and come running. God help her—how far away was the camp?

  The booted feet came closer—so close that she could hear the harsh breathing of her pursuers. A strong hand closed over one of her arms, the fingers tightening in a cruel grasp. Sofia was jerked back against a hard body, and had only enough breath to emit a loud scream before another cruel hand closed over her mouth.
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  Chapter Fifteen

  The chamber in which Sofia was imprisoned at Maltane had no windows, no proper bed, no tables and no chairs. Sir Griel suffered a small fire to burn in the small hearth during the cold night hours, and each morn a servant brought a fresh candle to keep Sofia company throughout the day. In one corner, a pallet of straw and two blankets provided a place for Sofia to sleep, and in the other was a bucket with which she could relieve herself when necessary. Near the door a tray was set each afternoon bearing a pitcher of sour wine and a single goblet, and to this was added, morning, noon, and night a small meal of bread, cheese and dried meats.

  If Sofia did not eat the offered victuals quickly, half a dozen rats scurried brazenly out of their nests to snatch them from the tray and carry them off. These same rats spent much of the night hours annoying Sofia, and she had awakened from a deep slumber more than once in the past five days since she’d been imprisoned to find them gnawing at her unbound hair with the intention of padding their nests with the stolen strands. The result was that she got very little sleep at all. However, she wasn’t entirely unthankful for her furry cell-mates. At least they did her the great favor of killing and eating the other assorted vermin that found their way into the chamber.

  It had taken less than a day and a night of hard riding for the men who had kidnapped Sofia to reach Maltane, and all she had been able to think upon was that Kayne and his army would never be able to catch them. Two full days, he had told her, it would take so great an army to reach Wirth, and very little could be done to make their arrival any sooner.

  Sofia and her captors had arrived at Maltane in the early morning hours, and despite her utter exhaustion and misery, she had readily seen that Maltane was preparing for a battle. The castle had ever been well fortified, but now she saw hundreds of soldiers with swords at their waists and crossbows slung across their backs lining the high walls, ready and waiting. Great black pots were also set at regular intervals on those same walls, which looked so unassailable, filled, Sofia had no doubt, with oil or water ready to be heated to a boiling pitch. Anyone who dared to attack Castle Maltane by scaling its walls would have a very unpleasant welcome awaiting them.

  Four of Sir Griel’s best and hardiest knights had been following Sofia since she and Kayne and the collected armies of Sir Justin, Sir Aric and Lord John had left Havencourt. They had kept watch in the woods at Vellaux, and followed behind when the assembled had left on their journey toward Wirth, waiting for their chance to kidnap Sofia. Their only regret, the leader of them told Sofia when they took one of their few, very brief rests during their frantic ride to Maltane, was that the arrow that had surely killed Gwillym had not instead found Kayne as its target. Sir Griel, the man explained, had promised a rich reward to the men not only for capturing Sofia and bringing her safely to Maltane, but an even greater prize of money for killing Kayne the Unknown.

  “And so you see, mistress,” the man had said, grinning at her in an openly leering manner, “we’d have done better to kill the blacksmith and leave you behind, save that Sir Griel promised we’d be the first to have you when he tires of bedding you. And once we’ve done with you, you’re to be made a common whore among all the men. But never fear,” he added with a wink, “the four of us won’t finish having our pleasure of you for many months, at least.”

  “If we ever do,” another put in, and they all laughed as if this were a fine jest.

  When they arrived at Maltane she was carried directly into the castle and, upon Sir Griel’s previous orders, taken straight to the chamber that had been prepared for her imprisonment. There had been neither candle nor fireplace then, and Sofia, finding herself in utter darkness, had felt her way about the damp, chilly room until she’d found the pile of straw. She sat down on it and waited, refusing to let herself sleep or think, until Sir Griel came. It was not a long wait. He arrived but half an hour later, having clearly been roused from his bed and informed of her arrival.

  He was preceded into the room by two servants bearing torches, blazing with a light that briefly blinded Sofia. Sir Griel entered the chamber, looking almost as disheveled as Sofia was, his bushy hair and beard even more untamed than usual. He blinked at her for a few moments as if he could not truly believe she was there, and then bade the servants to set the torches upon two iron brackets set in the wall on either side of the door and leave the chamber.

  “Your champion has not taken very good care of you, Sofia,” he said when they were alone, “to let you be captured by my men.”

  “Your men,” she said quietly, “vilely and in a cowardly manner killed an innocent man who was protecting me. He was the son of a nobleman, and a knight of the realm.”

  “Who, Gwillym?” he asked, giving a bark of laughter. “He was a traitorous dog who betrayed me and the vows of fealty he had given. His death is just punishment for such, and I will not grieve it a moment.”

  Sofia gave him a look of complete disgust and said nothing. He seemed unsettled and uncertain, almost nervous. He stood in his place, rubbing his hands together lightly, casting his glance about the room, sometimes looking at her, then looking away.

  “Sofia,” he said after a silent moment, “when last we met, I…behaved wrongly. I admit that. You had angered me greatly, and I became maddened and did not think upon what I did. The fault is as much yours as mine, perhaps even moreso, but you are a woman, and I, being a man, should not have let you…make me so crazed.”

  Sofia stared at him. Surely he was not trying to make apology for what he had done? ’Twould be far too strange—certainly not in the least like him, or what she knew of him—if he should be doing so.

  “You were going to rape me,” she told him tautly, each word slow and deliberate. “You abused me in a vile manner. You might even have killed me.”

  He spread his hands out as if pleading with her.

  “You pushed me too hard, Sofia,” he said. “You should not do that—ever. You must learn never to push me.” He set one hand to his forehead as if he suffered a terrible ache there. “Once I have become angered, I cannot stop myself. You have always driven me to every kind of passion. But even though you have been soiled by the blacksmith, I will yet take you as my wife, if you vow to obey me in all things and never give me cause for anger. This is the measure of the great love I bear you, Sofia, that I am yet willing to forgive and forget all your sins. This is how greatly I desire to have you as my wife and bedmate.”

  Sofia gaped at him now, utterly shocked. The blow Kayne had struck upon Sir Griel’s head must have altered his mind. This was not Sir Griel as she had ever known him. Indeed, she was amazed that he had not already drawn his dagger and slit her throat for the many insults that he perceived she had dealt him.

  “Love?” she repeated with little-concealed anger. “You dare to speak that word in my presence? You meant to rape me in the cruelest manner, with your men about you to watch and later take part, and you would have done so if Kayne the Unknown had not saved me.”

  “Sofia, listen to me,” he said in a reasoning tone, “’twill all be different once we are wed, I vow. Let me bring your father to you tomorrow to convince you that what I say is right. I will give you my word of honor, in his presence, that I will never raise a hand to you again, if you will also vow never to drive me to do so. Then we will be married the day after, and all will be well. You will be the lady of Maltane.”

  “Nay, I will not be,” she told him firmly, shaking her head. “And as to my father, I pray you will leave him in peace, else you will suffer the more for it. You are not unaware, having now had the report of your men who brought me here, that a great army is even now on its way to see you taken in chains to London for your just punishment.”

  “God curse you, Sofia!” he shouted, suddenly lunging forward to drag her up from her straw pallet. “You must wed me, else all will be lost! I will kill you otherwise! I vow it before God!”

  “Then do so!” Sofia shouted in turn, into his hairy face. “For
I would rather be dead than suffer your touch again!”

  He was shaking with fury, scarcely able to contain it.

  “You will wed me,” he said in a trembling voice. “You will, Sofia. And then you will write a missive to the king, in your own hand, and tell him that you took your vows willingly. Once you have done so, all will be well.”

  “I will drive you to kill me first,” she vowed. “I’ll make you angry, as I have already done, and you will not be able to help yourself.”

  He seemed to realize how painful a grip he held her in, and released her at once, stepping back. He ran one shaking hand over his now sweating brow.

  “Forgive me,” he muttered. “Forgive me, Sofia. I will try not to harm you again, and certainly not once we are wed.”

  Sofia gazed at him in the torchlight, rubbing her arms in the places that burned from his ungentle handling. She began to realize the truth of what had changed. Sir Griel was afraid to harm her, though ’twas clear he would like nothing better. Something held him back. Something…but what?

  Could it be only that Kayne and his powerful friends were coming soon with their combined armies? This would be something to be feared, indeed, but she couldn’t imagine Sir Griel behaving in so nervous a manner only for that. In truth, it would most likely only cause him to react more cruelly and angrily. But he was making every effort not to harm her as he had so readily done before. Could her father have possibly been brave enough to inform the king of what Sir Griel had done? If that had been so, and if the king had written Sir Griel of his displeasure…aye, the chance that he might incur the king’s wrath would truly be enough to strike a grave fear into him.

  “We will never wed,” she said. “Sir Kayne, the heir of Vellaux, is even now on his way to find me. Aye, I can see by your face that you have already discovered who he truly is—not a mere blacksmith, but the son of a great and powerful nobleman and a knight of the realm. He wants to kill you, and believes he has the right to do so, without fear of what the king or any other man might say. I’ve made him promise that he will give you no harm—but only so long as you are taken to London to stand trial.”