Bridget screamed as the weapons met with a resounding clang.
The second warrior took over chasing her. She sprinted up the incline toward the orchard.
“Quiet!” warned the brute. She sidestepped a ridge in the earth that had tripped her often over the years. A whoosh and a thud sounded beside her. A hasty glance revealed the axe blade lodged deep in the ridge.
Dear saints! ’Twas a miracle she’d been spared!
She found a burst of speed and darted forward into the orchard. Behind her, the sounds of clashing swords rang on. There was no way Kaitlin could fend off that huge lout. Bridget glanced over her shoulder to glimpse the shadowy figures swinging and parrying.
But she had her own worries. The beast following her drew his sword, having left the axe in the earth. She weaved desperately through the tightly spaced trees, seeking escape. Why hadn’t she grabbed a weapon off Alaric?
Big and cumbersome in his armor, her pursuer bumped into trunks and tripped over roots. He slipped to his knees on the dewy grass. She didn’t even need to look where she was going—she knew this plot of earth like the back of her hand, and the rough soles of her wooden shoes gripped the soil without fail.
The mead house squatted just ahead, beside a worktable laid with more beehives and implements for making mead out of honey. She hurled herself forward, the enemy warrior pounding the earth behind her.
On the table, a metal blade winked in the shifting light. She grabbed it up and dashed behind the table, putting table and skeps between herself and her attacker. They fell into a deadly dance, watching each other, brandishing their weapons, gasping for breath and sweating.
He grinned. “I’ve got you now, missy.”
Nay. She thought not.
From a bowl, she grabbed a large piece of gauze used to strain honeycomb. It was saturated with the fermented beginnings of mead. She flung it at him. It hit his nose guard with a splat and slid down his face.
Growling, he slashed at her with his sword, and she ducked. Then she knocked one of the bee skeps into him. The conical top separated from the base.
The bees issued forth in an angry swarm.
He cursed again. She knocked another skep into him.
Even in the dimness, she could see that the bees were instantly all over him, attracted by the honey and fermenting mead clinging to his chain mail hauberk. They lighted on his neck, then his face, at either side of his nose guard.
He screamed.
By God’s mercy, the bees ignored her. She knew to stand rock still until the colony had settled firmly on a target.
The brute howled like a tortured dog. The insects had begun to sting him. Cursing like the devil, he dropped his weapon and started flailing. He grabbed at his helmet and tore it off, bellowing at the top of his lungs.
Bridget turned and ran.
In the distance, alarm horns blared and the abbey bells tolled wildly. Castle folk appeared in the bailey—laborers, serfs, and servants with their brooms and rakes, women with wooden paddles used for churning laundry and butter.
“My lady, over here,” someone called. “We’ll protect you.”
“We must find Kaitlin,” she yelled back. “Follow me.”
As she ran down the slope, she could make out figures among the trees ahead. When she arrived at the spot she’d last seen Kaitlin, a frightening tableau seized the breath from her lungs. Off to one side lay a large, dark form, a man facedown, his helmet crushed at the rear. It looked like— Dear heavens, it appeared to be Sir Drogo! He’d come at the sound of her horn blasts.
Another Shyleburgh warrior slumped against the base of the wall, gritting his teeth and clutching his arm, and others were being relieved of their weaponry by enemy warriors. Two of the attackers had mounted to the guard post on the wall and were watching the countryside beyond. Another blocked the ruined postern.
Several other enemy warriors brandished knives, axes, and swords, while at their feet lay the warrior Kaitlin had battled, splayed on his back upon the ground with a river of blood seeping into the earth beside him. Had her sister slain him?
Where was Kaitlin?
Bridget looked around desperately for her sister. Dawn was breaking, dispelling the shadows.
One of the enemy was holding Kaitlin by the elbows, wrenching her shoulders back. Her helmet had been torn from her head, revealing her beautiful flaxen hair bound at her nape. A hulking warrior held the edge of a sword to her throat.
“Kaitlin!” Bridget rushed forward.
“Stay back, my lady,” Dougan, the master brewer, cried, pulling her back with his meaty paw.
Bridget went still, except for her panting and the organ stomping its way out of her chest. But the warning had drawn the notice of the muscular warrior with the sword pointed at Kaitlin. He raised an eyebrow and leered, turning toward Dougan.
“My lady, is it?” he said in a gritty timbre.
Everything inside her froze. It was a voice she’d recognize anywhere. Samson of Reggeland.
His gaze landed on her with the deadly chill of a winter’s night. The skin of her nape prickled with dread, just as a scuffle occurred over her shoulder.
Before she had a chance to react, someone grabbed her from behind, squeezing her hand until she dropped the knife, then twisting and bending her arm up against her shoulder blades.
She cried out, unable to move without excruciating pain. A burly arm inked with twining serpents came round her chest, and she felt something prick beneath her chin. A knife was at her throat.
“Dunstan!” She closed her eyes in disbelief. He was in league with their enemy!
“That’s right, my lady. ’Tis I,” the reeve whispered in her ear, his tone mocking.
Tannil the weaver spoke up. “What ’r ye doin’, Dunstan? Leave my lady be.”
Several others joined in, cursing and spitting at the ground.
Dunstan tightened his hold. The keen edge of the knife pressed into the curve of her throat. “Shut up, or I slice milady’s neck.”
“Nay!” the folk cried as one. No one dared make a move.
Samson—Black Hand—lowered his sword from Kaitlin, gesturing to one of his minions to take over guarding her. He strolled insolently toward Bridget. He pointed the tip of his weapon at her chest, pushing her gown inward between her breasts. If she moved an inch, the point would plunge into her flesh.
If he desired, he could kill her with no effort.
Or worse.
“I remember you, Lady Bridget.” He sneered at the title.
Staring into those chilling eyes, she raised her chin. Her belly clenched painfully as she recalled the suffocating agony he’d caused her years ago. Dunstan jerked her back, causing a stabbing pain in her shoulder and thrusting her breasts crudely outward.
Oh God! Was there no hope against these brutes? No faithful warrior to come to their aid?
Where was Father? She prayed he and others were still alive at the front gates, waiting to hear the all’s well from Sir Drogo. But Sir Drogo had failed to sound the all’s well, so her father should arrive soon to help. Please God, let it be so. Uncle’s guards would remain up near the hall as a last defense, but surely some of them would race here soon.
If she could stall just a bit longer…
Black Hand raised his damaged hand before her face. The fingers were gnarled, twisted, the leather filthy and crusted. He clenched a fist. “See this? It never healed properly.” He stared with perverse awe at his own appendage. “Are you pleased with your handiwork?”
Horrified, she tried to look away.
He grabbed her face, forced her to meet his gaze. “It still does what I need it to, though.” He ran a greasy forefinger down her cheek and over her collarbone.
She swallowed a wave of nausea.
He smirked. “I used to call you my little piglet, didn’t I?” He raked his disgusting gaze down over her, his pale eyes icy.
His nickname had mortified her as a child. Now, it just seemed mean and child
ish. It took all she had not to spit in his face. Doing so would likely enrage him all the more.
“You squealed when I hurt you. Like a piglet. Would you squeal now?” He deftly flipped the sword so that the flat of it pressed against her breast.
She refused to utter a sound, or to tremble before him.
Her breath came in quick, shallow pants as she stared back at him. It was difficult to suck in enough air, but tremble she would not.
“You were to be my bride. The whole of Reggeland and Shyleburgh were to be mine. That damn William stole what rightfully belonged to me.” As he spat the words, his hot breath seared her brow. His expression seethed with hate and fury.
But she could restrain her contempt no longer. “You seek only personal gain, you bastard, not English glory,” she shouted. “The people deserve peace. Lay down your arms—”
Her face burst in pain as he slammed his warped fist into her cheek. Dunstan had to support her from behind when her legs faltered.
The sword at her breast remained a cold, terrifying threat, but it was the agony in her mouth that occupied her now. Her teeth and jaw ached like the devil. Had she lost a tooth? She couldn’t tell.
She spat blood while giving Black Hand a glare she knew left no doubt as to her loathing for him.
His lip curled in distaste. “You always were a shrill, ungrateful bitch. Mayhap that Norman whoreson did me a favor where you are concerned after all. The thought of taking you to my bed—” He lowered the sword, his repugnant gaze shooting to Dunstan’s. “Where is the Lady Aislinn?”
Bridget’s breath stopped. Dear God, now he was going after Aislinn?
“Inside, I’d guess,” Dunstan said.
The wheels of thought churned in Black Hand’s head. He gnawed a lip. “How many guards are left?”
“By my reckoning,” Dunstan said, “Oelwine and twenty others guard the main gate and the other walls. We must act fast ere they make it back here.”
Twenty others. Bridget’s mind whirled. Not so.
Black Hand hoped to use his familiarity with the grounds to gain access quickly, to take Shyleburgh from within. But he didn’t know Uncle Edward was here with his men!
Hope began to whisper in her ear.
The alarms from the abbey still tolled across the countryside. Where was Grégoire? Bridget wondered desperately. Had Black Hand already killed him? Please, nay! He must be safe!
Cook spoke up from somewhere behind. “You always were a low-bellied snake, Dunstan. But this is foul, even for you.”
Dunstan shook Bridget so hard she bit her tongue. “Keep your words to yourselves, you puling maggots. Throw your weapons down.”
“Nay!” she countered with encouragement to her folk. “Don’t listen to him. Protect yourselves, everyone. Protect Shyleburgh. The earl will return and save us all.”
“FitzHenri?” Dunstan chuckled mirthlessly. “We’ve sent him on a wild goose chase into Cumbria.”
“Hold your tongue, idiot,” Black Hand snarled.
He lived! Grégoire was alive! Joy now mixed with her terror. But, alas, he was too far away to help them.
“Come. Bring the bitch.” Black Hand turned and began stalking swiftly up the incline to the keep.
The man watching Kaitlin asked, “What of this wildcat?”
“Bring her, too,” he ordered over his shoulder. “If either puts up a fight…” He halted to look into Bridget’s eyes. “Kill her.”
Before he could take another step for the hall, the castle folk formed a solid wall to block them. Cook maneuvered his massive frame into the fore. With a butchering knife in his hand and a take-no-prisoners expression on his face, he looked formidable despite the long night-tunic and woolen cap he wore.
Tannil the Weaver, though small and wiry, would have frightened anyone, smacking that wooden club against his palm the way he did.
“What is this?” Black Hand growled. “Get out of our way!”
“Nay,” Tannil said.
Dougan, the master brewer, nodded beside him. He wielded what looked like a board from one of his barrels. One end was splintered and jagged.
Black Hand shot a deadly glare at Dunstan. “You said they’d listen to you. Order them away.”
Cook laughed. “You told him that, Dunstan? You also likely told him how much we admire you and want to crown you king. We never could guess how you bribe the townsfolk into electing you.”
Black Hand said, “Get back, or we kill these two.” He cocked his head at Bridget.
“You wouldn’t dare,” said Cook. “There are many more of us than of you, and believe me, we would rather die than have you as our lord.”
One of the women shouted, “We tire of the strife and want. We need the peace the new king promises.”
The others cheered her words.
“Peace! Peace!”
Black Hand’s face exploded with rage. “Enough! Kill the bitches, and kill anyone who moves to stop you!” he ordered one of his men.
The warrior raised his crossbow.
Bridget closed her eyes as her lips trembled over a prayer.
God help us!
Something whistled loudly, and she opened her eyes. The man jerked back, struck in the forehead with a crossbow bolt. He fell lifeless to the ground as a volley of arrows rained down on the enemy troops from the ramparts of the keep.
Finally! Father had arrived from the front gate. Uncle Edward’s men, too.
Shouts rang everywhere. The invaders scattered to find cover. Some ran into the orchard, pursued by Shyleburgh laborers. Black Hand’s men manning the postern fired back.
Bridget took advantage of Dunstan’s surprise and shook off his grip. With a curse, he ran off.
Immediately, she was seized by Black Hand and yanked mercilessly backward. “You are coming with me.”
Bridget’s limbs turned to frost. She struggled against his hold, but it was no use. His ruined hand proved surprisingly, gruesomely strong.
“Stay back,” he ordered the Shyleburgh folk who moved to help her. He wrenched her away, his sword point ever present at her throat. How many victims’ blood had that weapon gorged upon? He was a desperate man with nothing to lose, striding through the chaos as if untouchable.
He marched her right past his own men fighting Shyleburgh warriors, serfs, and servants. The man holding Kaitlin followed after, along with two others who slipped from the fray. They headed for the postern, abandoning the battle.
“You won’t succeed,” Bridget told her captor. “Whatever you mean to do, Grégoire FitzHenri holds Shyleburgh now, and he won’t give it up. Not to you. Not for anything.”
“Shut up,” Black Hand barked, then pulled her arm so hard she cried out and stumbled.
“Bridget!” Kaitlin called, and jerked against her captor. One of the others backhanded her across the jaw.
“Kaitlin, nay,” she shouted, looking back to see her sister’s legs buckle. “I’m fine. Do as they say.”
Black Hand narrowed his empty eyes upon Bridget. “Very wise, little piglet.”
She wretched as bile welled inside her.
At the postern, the last thing she saw inside Shyleburgh’s walls was the warrior Thomas fending off another with his sword, but quickly losing ground. A loud clang rang out, and his foe suddenly crashed forward as Thomas stepped out of the way. There, where the enemy warrior had been, stood the kitchen maid, Berthe, holding an iron skillet high in the air.
After that, Bridget was thrust through the demolished postern, its shreds crackling underfoot. A handful of horses were saddled and waiting—Black Hand’s retreat plan. Her spirits fell to her toes even as her mind whirred through possibilities for escape.
If they made it to the woods, all would be lost. These monsters would never let her and her sister go unharmed. They might violate them, or use them as hostages when the earl returned to the keep. Perhaps Black Hand would barter them for Shyleburgh, or for safe passage out of England. But in the end, there was little doubt he w
ould kill them.
Shyleburgh was the treasure everyone wanted. Shyleburgh, with its lovely hall and stalwart walls. With its fruitful orchard and productive bees. Shyleburgh, with its ancient soil tied to ages past in an unending cycle of life and wealth. Even the Romans had kept a fort here.
Would Grégoire surrender her and her sister in order to keep such a treasure?
God willing, Aislinn remained safe, at least. She’d been well protected and would step up to serve as Grégoire’s countess. He didn’t need Bridget.
A silent sob raked its sharp claw up her throat.
Black Hand shoved her along in front of him, his wretched hand clamped like an eagle’s talon at her arm. Two of the soldiers who’d fled with them mounted swiftly and galloped off. In their panic to escape, they scattered the remaining horses.
Black Hand cursed vilely.
The man pulling Kaitlin threw his broadsword aside in order to reach for the reins of a prancing charger. One-handed, he hauled himself into the saddle. Her sister tried to break free, but the brute lugged her up face down over his lap. They spurred off down the hillside, dispersing bleating sheep every which way.
Bridget was alone with the beast. Utterly alone.
Tears seared her throat as she realized all was truly lost. Grégoire was leagues away. The people of Shyleburgh may have taken back the keep from Black Hand’s warriors, but who knew how many more the cur had waiting for him in the woods.
Which was where he was taking her.
She couldn’t let him! She couldn’t let him abuse her again, or hostage her to gain the keep. Couldn’t let him use her against Grégoire. She needed to escape.
Or die trying.
Black Hand went after one of the horses. It sidestepped, but even with sword hilt in hand, he snatched the reins and forced the animal to heed.
While he was distracted, Bridget dragged with all her might against his hold.
“Get over here,” he ordered, hauling her to him. He positioned his foot in the stirrup.
With a guttural cry, she pulled backward, swinging on his arm and leveraging her weight against his.
He lost his balance, and in his fall, released his grip on her. She fell on her bottom, scrambled desperately to her feet.
Come to Me Page 27
