Mary Reed McCall (25 page)

A
idan stumbled for what seemed like the twentieth time in the past quarter hour; blood oozed, stinging, from the manacles biting into his wrists as the guard seated in the cart in front of him jerked him forward by his chains again. He might as well have been walking the road to hell. The sun beat down on his head, baking him, and his throat was parched, every muscle in his body screaming for relief from the grueling pace that Rutherford had chosen to take with him.

The duke had pushed their speed intentionally, Aidan knew. The man rode comfortably in the same padded cart that held Aidan’s guard, while the remaining two score of his forces sat astride war steeds on this godforsaken path; Aidan alone had been forced to make the journey on foot, the ordeal serving as another way for Rutherford to extract payment from his protesting flesh. ’Twas clear that he relished the idea of inflicting as much agony on him as possible, even knowing that torture and a trial would
surely follow their arrival at his place of judgment.

And that was all the more reason, Aidan swore to himself, that he’d fall down dead before he would willingly falter or beg quarter of any kind.

“Move along, Captain—you’re slowing down!” Rutherford called ahead from the cart. As he awaited his captain’s response, the duke looked back at Aidan, taking a moment to enjoy his prisoner’s exhaustion—his level of thirst and discomfort—before giving him a dark smile.

The captain at arms cantered back from his position at the front of the line, reining in his mount to a trot beside Rutherford’s cart; his face was red from the heat and his mouth looked pinched as he said, “I am afraid that we will need to stop for a short time, your grace. The horses require rest and water if we are to reach Lord Warrick’s estate before nightfall.”

Though sweat stung his eyes, Aidan blinked it back enough that he could see Rutherford scowl. “Can we not get another half hour from them?” the duke grumbled.

“Not unless you wish to stop in the villages along the way to replace those animals that collapse,” the captain answered, clearly struggling to mute the disdain in his voice.

Rutherford gave him a sharp look then growled, “Very well. Call a halt for an hour—no more. Enough time for some water and rest. Then we push on.”

With a nod, the captain rode to the front again, calling a break. The procession ground to a halt, the wheels of Rutherford’s cart creaking as they slowed and finally stilled. Aidan stumbled to a stop as well, sucking air, the bliss of not moving almost overwhelming as he bent over, his manacled wrists pressing into his thighs.

“Water!” the soldiers called down the ranks a few moments later, as several of the men made their way down the line carrying bucketsful that they’d fetched from a nearby stream. Aidan eyed the drink, his thirst an almost
tangible force, as he watched the soldier next to him set down a bucket for his mount. Noticing his stare, the man untied a skin from his waist, tipping it up to take a swallow before offering it to Aidan.

“Here,” he said. “’Tis still cold from the stream.”

But as Aidan reached out to take the vessel, a voice rang out sharply, “Hold there!”

Aidan stilled, snapping his gaze to Rutherford, who had issued the command as he climbed from his perch in the cart. “Give it to me,” the duke ordered the soldier as he approached, and the young man paled, handing it to the duke without a sound.

“Thirsty, are you, de Brice?” Rutherford gloated, measuring the weight of the skin, and jiggling it so that splashes of precious liquid spilled onto the dust of the roadway.

“You’re a bastard, Rutherford,” Aidan rasped.

“And you’re a traitor,” the duke replied smoothly. Then his pointed expression became subtler. “But I suppose I must keep you alive long enough to have the pleasure of seeing you drawn and quartered. Here—” he tossed the water skin, and Aidan was forced to jerk forward to catch it, wrenching his painful wrists, “—take it and drink. I’d hate to miss the amusement of watching you struggle to keep up.”

Aidan didn’t bother to reply, instead drinking deep, letting the water spill over his face. ’Twas a gift from God, and an enormous error on Rutherford’s part; the water would give him the strength, he knew, to keep alert and ready for the moment when he might make an attempt to escape.

The bastard duke hadn’t won yet, by God. Nay, not yet.

Aidan gave the water skin back to the soldier when he was through, noticing that Rutherford seemed to have
contented himself for the moment with the spite he’d shown; he’d climbed back into his padded cart and leaned back, using a crude construct of several of his men’s shields as a shelter from the sun. The arrogant wretch felt so secure that Aidan even heard snores coming from inside his makeshift haven.

The forty or so soldiers accompanying him seemed to feel similarly confident, by virtue of their numbers, Aidan supposed; as he gazed around from where he sat, still chained to the cart at the roadside, he saw that half of the duke’s men rested in whatever shade could be found. The other half talked quietly, or laughed and played at dice, but all completely ignored him.

All except for the captain at arms, he noticed—who continued to walk the perimeter of the group, stiff-backed and watchful, checking on Aidan regularly. The rest of the time the man looked to the forest on one side of the road, then up to check as far as the eye could see both north and south of the thoroughfare, and finally over again to the wood on the other side of the road. His scrutiny of the area was more than thorough, Aidan thought, exhibiting an attentiveness worthy of one of his own men, even.

Which was why it was all the more surprising when an arrow suddenly whizzed a silent path from the woods, catching the captain unawares and piercing his thigh with a sickening thud.

What the hell…?

It took a moment for Aidan’s mind to grasp the import of what was happening, but in the next instant he’d scrambled for some semblance of cover near Rutherford’s cart, watching the chaos swell around him as arrow after arrow flew a deadly course, each finding its target with uncanny accuracy. He wondered who was behind the attack; based
on the sheer volume of arrows zinging at the caravan from the trees, he decided ’twas most likely Kevyn, leading a group of Dunston men to rescue him.

A feathered shaft whistled by his head, close enough that a waft of air brushed his cheek. Gritting his teeth, he dived farther under the cart, once there, slipping his chain beneath the wheel in an attempt to pull the links apart. As he yanked at the chain, the thought crossed his mind that he would have to have a talk with Kevyn, when this was all over, about his archery skills—not to mention the stupidity of taking a risk like this when he was the only one left in charge of protecting Diana and the rest of the people at Dunston.

But he could do that later; right now he was just damned glad that his friend had come at all.

Nearly half of Rutherford’s men lay wounded or dead, it seemed, in the first five minutes of the attack. The duke himself had awoken at the shouting, but had remained hidden under the one shield not snatched off of him by his men as they clambered for their weapons. Aidan realized that fact when the man who’d owned the shield cried out and fell out of the cart, dead, at his feet; ’twas the same guard who’d been jerking him along the roadway—and from the position of the feathered shaft protruding from his chest, the arrow had pierced him straight through the heart.

“Mayhap your aim’s not as bad as I thought, Kev,” Aidan muttered, grinding his teeth again as he pushed the man’s body aside with his foot in order to yank one last time on the chain. It broke free with a snap, and he fell backward, the momentum knocking the wind from him. But it wasn’t the jolt of the fall that made him freeze still, or sent the tingling chill up his spine: ’twas the otherworldly battle cry that echoed from the woods at that very moment, followed by the hurtling mounted forms of three
Welsh warriors in full battle regalia, their helms on and visors down.

He felt pinned to the ground with shock when he finally managed to get a good look at the descending attackers as they rode past him, seeing the distinctive golden dragon, rampant, on the chest of the lead warrior. Then a growl ripped from his throat as he surged to his feet, the pure joy he felt at seeing Gwynne again drowning in a wash of utter fear at the danger she was putting herself into with this foolhardy attempt at a rescue. “
Gwynne?
Damn it, what are you doing here—?”

But his roared question was absorbed into the shouts echoing around him. Owin and Dafydd fought with her, he saw, and the three of them made quick work of disabling those men not already subdued by the earlier hail of arrows. Several of the soldiers took one look at the wildly fierce attack of the rebels—saw Gwynne’s remarkable fighting skills in action against their comrades—and they threw themselves astride their mounts and rode, hell-bent, down the road toward Warrick’s estate.

Though the chains themselves still dangled from his wrists, Aidan’s hands were free now; stumbling to one of the bodies, he picked up the man’s sword and ran into the remaining melée, swinging and slashing alongside Gwynne and her men, unhorsed now and fighting on foot, until none were left standing but himself and them.

Gasping with the effort just expended, the four stood with their backs to each other once the fighting ended, gauging any further threat. All was silent for a moment. Then a soft cry rang out from behind Aidan, near the cart. Gwynne wheeled away from the protection of the group and stalked closer to the source of the sound, her blade at the ready. Aidan followed close behind, stilling, as she did, at what they found.

Three young soldiers—two of them looking to be no
more than sixteen or seventeen—huddled together behind one of the cart’s wheels; one of the young men appeared to be wounded by an arrow-shot; the others were bleeding from various cuts and bruises, but all three looked terrified as they stared in awe at the famed Dark Legend standing before them.

“Do you yield?” Gwynne growled, lowering her sword tip toward them. Her voice sounded husky, low enough to pass for a man’s, Aidan thought, muffled as it was through the opening of her helm.

“Aye,” one of the young warriors called, his voice cracking with fear.

“Aye, we yield!” another of the men choked. The third had already fallen senseless and was unable to respond.

“Throw your weapons down and find mounts,” she commanded, still maintaining her pose of readiness.

“Then ride away from here and do not look back.”

The young men remained in place for an instant longer, still frozen with dread, until she growled a final, “Go!”

At that, the two on either side of the wounded man jerked to their feet, supporting their friend between them as they moved as quickly as they could to an uninjured steed. Throwing the senseless man across its back, one of the boys climbed astride behind him, while the third found another horse and swung into the saddle. Casting a last panicked glance in Gwynne’s direction, the lone rider dug his heels into his mount and took off down the road, his two friends not far behind.

’Twas silent again after their leaving; only a few groans echoed from the mass of death and destruction surrounding them. Aidan watched Gwynne survey the area again, still not looking directly at him; Owin and Dafydd approached her as well, removing their helms to stand near her, breathing heavily from their exertions.

“If there be any others capable of leaving who wish to
do so—go now,” she called out. “No harm will come to you if you do.”

As she waited for a response, Aidan glanced at the cart near her current position; he remembered Lord Rutherford’s attempt to hide himself inside it, beneath the dead soldier’s shield. The cart looked empty now, the shield discarded. Making a scoffing sound, Aidan took a few steps nearer, noticing the empty harness; its straps had been cut. ’Twas clear that the cowardly duke had taken the first opportunity to flee during the fighting, leaving his men to die in his stead, in the way of many great lords Aidan had the misfortune of knowing.

Gwynne had still received naught by way of response to her offer of reprieve by the time he turned to face her again, all those left being either dead or incapable of moving. Taking a step back, she sheathed her sword. Her shoulders seemed to sag with weariness, her arms dangling at her sides for a moment before she finally reached up and pulled off her helm.

She swiveled her head toward him, then, her gaze connecting with his and sending that familiar jolt through him. He couldn’t seem to look away. She frowned, the expression etching tiny lines between her brows as she pulled off her gauntlets to wipe her face with the back of her hand.

“You’re bleeding,” she said gruffly, nodding toward his wrists and the blood that trickled, now, over his hands from handling a sword while still shackled.

“’Tis nothing,” he said, swiping the flow away with the edge of his tunic before raising his gaze to her again, adding in an attempt to coax a smile from her, “I much prefer it to the amount that would have been spilled on the block had you not come.”

The statement got no reaction, except, perhaps, a deepening frown. “We should see to having those chains removed. The cuts could fester…”

Her words faded away for him as a sudden movement off to her side caught his attention—and though what happened next took place in a matter of seconds, it seemed to drag on through eternity, playing itself out with agonizing slowness before his eyes.

He threw himself toward her, his shout of warning echoing through the space between them, but he knew that, no matter how quickly he moved, he would never reach her in time to stop the man who’d sprung to charge at her from his hiding place behind the back wheels of the cart.

The man who was in the process of swinging a glinting, deadly blade right at her head.

Lord Rutherford bellowed with victory as he brought his sword down, but Gwynne, reacting to Aidan’s shouted warning, managed to reach down and grip her hilt, drawing her weapon and spinning to face the duke in the same instant. ’Twas too late to avoid his blow altogether; Rutherford missed her head, but with her twisting, his blade sliced high into her side, stilling her for one heart-stopping moment before she followed through with her stroke, a growl bursting from her as she brought her blade down to cut deep into his shoulder.