Warrior's Song (17 page)

    Why did she assume that?

    Why could she not solve the problem? Her mind went blank. What to do? What to do?

    Well, what would Jerval do? He was a man, a man just like Graelam, who had raped Mary, made her pregnant. Oh, God, would Jerval say they had no choice? Would he say that since Mary was shamed she had to go to a convent? Chandra had to think; she had to save Mary.

    She leaned forward in her saddle, her face on the roan's neck. She closed her eyes, smelling his sweat, feeling the steady rhythm of his hooves.

    For the tenth time, she told herself that she had done nothing dishonorable. This time she would prove to Jerval that she was skilled and competent, that he needed her. This would end the strife between them. He would admire her, praise her, approve, finally, of what she was.

    He simply had to.

    She loved his mouth on her, loved him inside her, wanted those frantic wild feelings.

    No, she wouldn't think about that.

    Her exhilaration began to dim when the late afternoon air became damp and chill as the road snaked closer toward the sea. It was odd, she thought, pulling the wool cap tighter over her hair, how slowly the time passed when one was alone. Her stomach growled, and she thought of the single loaf of bread that would be her evening meal, indeed, all of her meals until— until what?

    Fools acted in anger. Bigger fools acted in haste. And the very biggest fools acted out of vanity and arrogance. She had done all three. She should be riding in the midst of his men, not trailing after them, alone and at risk. She turned in her saddle to stare back in the direction of Camberley. She didn't see the keep, naturally; she saw Jerval's face, grim and set, and knew that even if she returned to Camberley now, he would know that she had disobeyed him, and his anger would be nearly as great. It was possible that she would be in more danger than she was in now were she to try to return to Camberley alone.

    She was beyond a fool.

    She could think of nothing to do except see this through. She slapped her arms against the cold and started singing to her horse. She didn't know his name.

    Mark turned about to let the fire warm his back and tossed the pork rind over his shoulder. "You are quiet tonight, Jerval. What ails you?"

    "Nothing."

    "Do you brood on a new strategy for the Scots?"

    Jerval raised his head, forced a smile. "If you would know the truth, I was wondering if my father will chance taking Chandra any supper."

    "If he's wise, he'll send Mary. The girl handles Chandra better than you do. Even your mother treats Mary well, almost as if she were another daughter."

    "But not another daughter-in-law."

    Mark grinned. "I never forget the day poor Trempe wandered into the hall looking totally bewildered, Chandra's hauberk tucked under his arm, not having a single idea what he should do. Your mother just stood there beside him, the both of them staring at that damned hauberk."

    "One of the links had come loose. Chandra had very nicely asked him to repair it for her."

    "Which he did, I gather, once you gave him the order. I remember that at Croyland, her word was law, even with her father's armorer."

    "You think I should have tied her up as well as locked her in her room?"

    "Nay. As it is, she will likely starve herself, out of anger against you. It is difficult to balance the cocky, arrogant boy with the soft, beautiful woman."

    "Aye," Jerval said only, but Mark knew him very well. They'd been raised together, after all.
He loves her,
Mark thought, hence his patience with her. Yet Chandra admired strength, and Mark wondered if Jerval would not more quickly gain her compliance if he simply buckled down and beat her. No, he couldn't, wouldn't do that. And if he did, Chandra would probably stick a knife between his ribs. Mark hated that there was nothing he could do.

    "You know," Jerval said after a moment, to all of his men, "I have been thinking. I'm now firmly convinced that Sir John of Oldham is in league with the Scots. We have spoken of it before, but now my father agrees with me, even though he wishes he did not. It is odd that they appear so suddenly, as if they were in hiding near to us. My father remarked upon that first thing when we heard of this raid."

    Ranulfe said, nodding, "Oldham's keep is but five miles to the east of Camberley, in the direction of the latest attack. I have never trusted Sir John, for he is a greedy man."

    "Aye, and disloyal, I wager," Mark said. "I agree. He is involved with them."

    "We will know for certain soon," Jerval said. He paused a moment, then smiled. "I have spoken to Chandra of Sir John and his dealings. She has plans of her own for him." He broke off, grinning into the fire.

    Rolfe called out, "What does your lady wife say?"

    "That we should visit Oldham, as well as the other keeps, and introduce her to our people. It is her idea to go sniffing about to see if Sir John is up to anything."

    Mark said. "That is a good idea. A lady is more apt to be allowed to pry and ask questions. Sir John would likely fall all over himself to impress her."

    "Aye. My wife can be quite reasonable. She has a good mind. But I will not let her go with us, for it could be dangerous. After we have dispatched the Scots to hell, we will ride to Oldham."

    "And catch Sir John by surprise?"

    "Aye. I look forward to the meeting."

    They broke camp early the next morning and huddled close to their horses' necks for warmth as they rode, for a cold wind was blowing in from the sea. The demesne farm was naught save smoldering ashes when they reached it, and the peasants had just buried the three men slaughtered by the Scots. They did not tarry there. Jerval pushed them throughout the morning northward toward the border, over terrain that became ever more wretchedly stark and barren.

    "Jerval— there is a man trailing us. Lambert spotted him but a few minutes ago."

    Jerval reined in Pith and turned in his saddle at Arnolf's shout. "Is he alone?"

    "For the moment he is. Lambert says he looks English."

    Jerval was silent for a moment. "Still, there is a chance he may be tracking us for the Scots."

    "One of Sir John's men?" Mark said, reining in his horse.

    "Possibly. Have Lambert hang back and keep him in sight. I have no wish for the lot of us to be ambushed. Don't let the man catch sight of Lambert."

    Their horses climbed a steep rise, and Jerval raised his hand for a halt behind some boulders that had scrubby oak trees growing in amongst them. Stretched before them was a wasteland of rocky, shallow hills dotted only with splashes of green moss. Jerval looked again behind them, tightening his grip on Pith's reins. The man trailing them had shortened the distance and was now riding but a mile behind them, his horse holding a steady pace.

    "Let us wait for the fellow," he said to his men. "I wish to know what manner of fool he is."

    They watched the man ride through a narrow stretch of road, bounded on each side by desolate heaps of rocks. They realized that he didn't see the four riders gallop from behind the rocks until they had formed a half circle around him. From where he sat, Jerval could hear their banshee cries as they swung their claymores in great arcs through the air.

    "God's blood," Jerval shouted, "it's certain now that the fellow isn't one of them. It is four Scots against one. Don't they know that we are not that far ahead of them? Are they stupid?"

    Mark said, "Evidently they don't know. Whoever he is, he's a fool, likely a dead one very soon. Can you imagine riding out here by yourself? At least he's brought them out into the open for us."

    "We might as well try to save the fellow," Jerval said. He whipped Pith about, dug his heels fiercely into his destrier's sides and galloped back down the hill. He was yelling at the top of his lungs, as were his men, hopeful of turning the Scots' attention toward them and away from the single man.

CHAPTER 17

"Ye wish to taste death, do ye?"

    Chandra nearly fell off her horse in shock to see the ferocious-looking Scot riding right at her, his huge claymore stretched above his head, a wide grin splitting his bearded face.

    She felt equal amounts of fear and excitement pour through her. She yelled at him, "Come then, you ugly bastard. You will feel my sword cold in your guts!"

    But she had no time to pull her sword from its scabbard, for the four men were closing swiftly about her.

    "It's but a boy, lads," one of the Scots shouted. "Look at his pretty, smooth face! Just a little nipper, coming to find us."

    "Aye, a wee English bastard."

    "Let's slice him up and take his horse. He's old, but he's sound."

    Four of them. Too many, too many. They were Scots, savages, without honor. They were the ones Jerval was hunting.

    They had formed a loose circle around her, coming no closer; even that huge, ugly one had drawn back. They were taunting her, waiting, she guessed, for her to lunge at one of them so that the others could slash at her back. No, it was simpler than that. They wanted her to drop her weapons and give up. They didn't want to take a chance of harming her horse.

    She didn't move, just held the roan steady. The man she thought was their leader— he was a large man with a thick black beard and long black hair that flowed over his shoulders, eyes as black as a moonless night.

    She whipped her horse to face him. "Are you so afraid of one man that you must hang back? I see now that you are naught but a worthless pack of scavengers. Cowards, the whole lot of you."

    "Aiee, Alan," one of the men cried, "yer brave lad calls us cowards. What think ye o' that? Let me take him." He lashed his horse toward her, and Chandra turned to meet him. She slashed at him with her sword, and felt the blade tear into his arm. He lurched back, grabbing his arm, yelling, and she saw blood spurting out between his fingers. Chandra felt her wool cap suddenly jerked from her head, and her long, thick braid fell free down her back.

    Jerval recognized the roan stallion in the next instant. It was Thunder, old now, but strong, steady, still valuable. He saw the man slash out at one of the Scots, draw blood, but then another of them closed behind him and jerked off his cap. A thick golden braid swung free.

    By all the saints, it was Chandra.

    No, no, it simply couldn't be his wife, that damned stubborn girl he'd locked in their bedchamber to keep her safe. Instant fear froze the blood in his veins.

    But he wasn't surprised. He was many thing in that moment, but no, he wasn't surprised. He closed his eyes a moment against the fear of it.

    He cursed even as he prayed that her hair would save her life. No man— even a Scot— would want to stick his sword through a woman. No, a man would want to rape a woman, not kill her.

    "A girl," Alan Durwald shouted. "It's a bloody girl." He could not believe his eyes, and his men pulled their horses back, gaping at her in surprise. Alan slewed his head about to see the mounted Englishmen bearing down on them, their swords at the ready. They'd used this girl for bait? She was their tethered goat? He hated the English to his very soul, always had, but he had never imagined they could be so devious, so conniving.

    He gazed for a moment at that beautiful dirty face, recognized the wild fury in her eyes for what it was. What was going on here? He reached out his hand and grabbed her long braid, pulling her off balance. With his other hand, he brought his knife down and severed part of the braid.

    Chandra tried to pull away, but in the next instant, the man Alan had smashed his horse against hers, jerked her out of her saddle and thrown her facedown over his thighs. Her sword went spinning from her hand and clattered to the rocky ground. He ripped the quiver off her shoulder and flung it away.

    "Let's be gone, lads, quickly, quickly." Alan Durwald knew they had but a few moments to escape the Englishmen galloping furiously toward them. "Aye, it's a marvelous prize we've won this trip!"

    Chandra yelled at the top of her lungs and tried to rear up, but he smashed his hand down, pinning her.

    "Hush, my little lad," Alan said, and stroked his fingers over her.

    She cursed him, but her voice was muffled against his thigh. He laughed harder.

    He was ahead of his men now. He shouted back over his shoulder, "I will meet ye at the border. Angus, ye go fetch the other men and the cattle. The rest of ye, fight off the English bastards. I will see that our prize is kept safe."

    Jerval rode straight toward the first of the yelling Scots, his powerful arm raised. The man hacked at him, spittle spewing from his mouth as he shouted curses, but it was quickly over. Jerval's sword plunged into the man's chest and emerged a foot from his back. He yanked his sword back and saw the man's eyes widen in astonishment as he slid off his horse and sprawled on the rocky ground.

    Jerval wheeled about in his saddle, looking frantically for Chandra. He saw her, in the distance, thrown facedown in front of one of the Scots. "Mark, kill the rest of them, and then follow me." He wheeled Pith about and dug in his heels.

    "Faster, Sunnart," Chandra heard the man Alan yelling at his powerful stallion. He looked over his shoulder and saw that one of the Englishmen had turned from his men and was galloping after them. "Well, lass," Alan said, his hand hard against the small of her back to hold her still, "it appears that one of the English wants ye for himself."

    She knew it had to be Jerval. He would save her. She managed to rear up just a bit and yelled, "It is my husband, and he will kill you. You must let me go."

    "Yer husband? That lie will bring ye many a fair night in hell. If he were yer husband, ye stupid wench, ye wouldn't be here now. Ye'd be safe, far away from here. No husband would let his wife dress like a boy and ride into battle. No husband would be such a fool unless he wanted to rid himself o' ye.

    "And ye were by yerself. Ye lie, for even a gutless Englishman wouldn't be that stupid. Now ye think that coward will kill me? I dinna think so, lass. I'm hard to catch, much less kill. He has a bit o' distance to cover to catch us. Already his beast is tiring. My Sunnart will get us to safety. Ye will bring me a fine ransom, my little lad. Mayhap that man is yer lover? Aye, but ye no longer please him in his bed? He wants to be rid of ye now? Aye, that's it, isn't it?" And he laughed.

    Chandra could see nothing, for the dust the stallion kicked up was clogging her nostrils and burning her eyes. Her plan had gone wrong. Everything had gone wrong. She had broken the glass window in the bedchamber. She had, quite simply, ruined everything.

    She had to get away from this man, else he might try to use her to kill Jerval. She would not let that happen. She closed her eyes against the dust, then gritted her teeth. He had to make a mistake soon— he had to. Patience, she had to have patience, and remain alert and ready.

    "An insistent man, that Englishman," Alan said after a few more minutes of hard riding. "He doesn't know the eastern forest— that will slow him. Aye, we'll lose him in amongst the trees."

    He raised his hand from her back. Instantly, Chandra tried to wrench herself free. She reared up, twisted even as she was readying to hurl herself to the ground. She nearly made it, knew that when she hit the ground, she had to roll fast. She felt the point of a dagger pressing through her clothes, its razor tip nipping the flesh of her side.

    "Hold still, wench, else yer lover will find a dead mistress in a ditch. Does he dress ye like a boy because it pleases him to do so? The English are pederasts— all know that— but to dress a lass like a little warrior and send her out as bait— by a man's balls, that's a gutless thing to do. Are ye worth so little to him?"

    He believed Jerval was so dishonorable that he'd used her as bait to draw out the Scots? What was a pederast? She lay like a sack of peat, afraid even to breathe. They gained the forest. She saw the blur of trees, heard the crunch of leaves and the tear of bushes beneath Sunnart's hooves. A branch slashed her face. She pressed her face downward against his thigh to protect herself.

    He laughed— the madman actually laughed as he said, "There'll be time enough later for that, lass. Aye, I'll show ye what a man can be. A Scotsman is no pederast. It's pleased I am to see ye so interested. Yer tired of yer cold Englishman? Well, it matters not since he is obviously tired o' ye." He jabbed the tip of the knife into her flesh again, and she felt the brief sting, then the wet of her blood beneath her clothes.

    Jerval pulled Pith to a halt to wait for his men. He knew he wouldn't find the Scotsman in the forest; he needed Thoms to track him. Christ, he thought, cold with fear for her, he should have tied her down, left two men to stand over her, guarding her every waking hour. Her pride, her damnable pride. He steeled himself against the sight of her flung facedown before the Scot.

    Lambert shouted, "We killed the three bastards. But there's no sign of the cattle."

    "They split up," Mark said. "We need to send our men after them."

    Jerval motioned for six men, Rolfe at their head, to go after the cattle.

    "Where is milady?" Thoms asked.

    "Their leader has her," Jerval said, and the sound of his own words froze him all the way to his bones, but only for an instant. "He rode into the forest. Thoms, you must track him."

    Then he paused, thinking. "Ranulfe, I don't believe he will hide in the forest for long. He needs to get to the border, needs to see to the cattle he stole, come together with his other men. We will skirt the forest northward, by the sea. With luck, he'll veer eventually our way and we'll have him. But Thoms, find his tracks and keep close to him. It's possible he may go to the east. We have enough men. Set up a relay so if he decides to come out to the west, we will have warning."

    Jerval was right. Not an hour later, Rolfe shouted, "You were right, Jerval. The bastard is headed northwest, out of the forest. Thoms will stay well behind him, but he said it was obviously the man's direction. Aye, the damned Scot wants to make better time and he cannot do it in the forest. It's nearly dark."

    They rode hard, hoping to get well ahead of the Scot before he broke out of the trees. "We must catch them before dark," Jerval said once, then said it again, and all the men knew what he was thinking.

    "Don't forget that he's carrying Chandra," Mark said. "It will slow him even more. You know too that she will fight him at every opportunity."

    Jerval knew it well. He prayed the Scot wouldn't finally decide she wasn't worth risking his life for and slit her throat.

    But night was falling. It wouldn't be long now. Jerval thought of the man alone with his wife and thought he'd choke on his rage, and his helplessness.

    Alan Durwald reined in his exhausted stallion and slewed his head back. A gentle rise blocked his view, but he could see no clouds of dust from pursuing horses. They'd been out of the forest for only a few minutes now. There was no one about. He was safe. He'd lost the Englishman. He said, even as he pressed his fingers inward on her hips, "Well, my cheeky little lady, it appears that yer lover has at last given up, or I've outsmarted him or mayhap he just didn't care. Another half hour, and it will be dark. And then, wench, we can take our rest. I do hope yer lover will still want to pay yer ransom when I'm done with ye."

    
You will have to kill me first,
Chandra thought. She tried to pull herself upward, but he grabbed her hair, wrapping it tight about his hand, making her scalp burn, and pressed her face down again. She saw the crimson of the sun setting over the sea. Please, she prayed silently, please be close by.

    Alan Durwald clicked Sunnart forward toward the next rise, swiveling about in his saddle again to look back at the rutted path behind them. He was pleased until he turned forward again. Chandra felt him tense, and then he cursed, a torrent of Scottish oaths she did not understand, but she felt the fury of them to her bones. He whipped his horse about and rode back south, back toward the forest. He cursed again. He saw more of the English coming out of the forest. They'd been tracking him. Somehow the others had gotten ahead of him. What to do? He was pinned between the two groups.

    Suddenly, Sunnart stumbled, and his great body heaved with effort, throwing Chandra up against the man's chest. She gave a howl of fury and mashed her fist into his groin as the stallion reared. Alan grunted in pain, tried to control the panicked Sunnart. Chandra threw herself sideways, breaking free of his arm.

    Her joy lasted only until she struck the rocky ground. The impact knocked the breath from her, and she rolled head over heels down a sharp incline. Jagged rocks tore through her clothes and flesh. She couldn't stop herself, her fingers grabbing at rocks, at bushes, but she couldn't keep a hold. Then her head struck a rock and she didn't know when she finally rolled to a stop.

    "Wake up, Chandra. Damn you, don't you dare die on me."