Kim Iverson Headlee Read online

  Two guards opened the doors, and a hush conquered the crowd. One would have thought the king himself had appeared. Alain gave Ruaud a subtle nod and he strode in, with Alain trailing a discreet half pace behind.

  Without even so much as a meat knife, Alain felt naked as they passed the outlaws, who gave them measuring stares. Since they concentrated most of their scrutiny upon Ruaud, Alain suspected “naked” couldn’t begin to describe how his friend must feel. Yet Ruaud’s stride did not falter as they traveled the aisle to approach Waldron upon the dais.

  “Sir Ruaud d’Auvay,” intoned Waldron, “what is your decision?”

  Alain began to translate, but Ruaud held up a hand, expression grave. “I help daughter of you. I and my squire, if they”—he jerked a contemptuous nod over his shoulder—“agree.”

  “We donna give a bloody damn about your squire.” The outlaws’ spokesman looked as if he wanted to surge forward, but Waldron’s men kept him at bay.

  “Both or no accord!” Grinning, Ruaud added, “No gold of King William.”

  This prompted more arguing among the outlaws, though it seemed to Alain the sole dissenter would soon lose. As he watched in morbid fascination, he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned to find Ruaud also had turned, and Waldron was regarding them.

  “Whatever happens, I cannot thank you enough. Both of you,” the thane said. “Please know you go with my prayers, and the prayers of all Edgarburh. May God grant you mercy, strength, and courage.”

  Waldron extended his hand to Ruaud, and they gripped forearms with a depth of sentiment that needed no translation. Moments before Alain’s turn, he noticed a flash of white in Waldron’s palm. They too gripped forearms, but rather than letting go, Waldron slid his hand back. Since the outlaws were approaching, Alain stashed the packet, unopened, in his pouch.

  “For Kendra,” whispered Waldron. “May it help you too.”

  Alain had no time to wonder about the gift as the outlaws produced lengths of leather cord for binding his and Ruaud’s wrists. After they had finished, Alain gave several experimental tugs, feeling the cords scrape his flesh. The knots held fast.

  The outlaws shoved Ruaud and Alain, and their march into captivity began.

  The looks they earned from Waldron’s men contained more pity than anything else, as though they didn’t hold much hope for the Normans’ success. Alain couldn’t disagree, but neither could he fall prey to doubts, his or anyone else’s.

  Kendra’s life—no, all of their lives, he realized as they passed from the torchlit hall’s safety into the gaping maw of night—depended upon it.

  Chapter 6

  A BLOW TO the ribs roused Alain from a fitful sleep. Rolling away earned him a kick on the other side. He rolled again, ending on his stomach.

  “Hey, Pit, Pretty Boy wants a good buggering. You going to oblige him or should I?”

  Despite being stiff and sore from sleeping on rocky ground, he couldn’t sit up fast enough. He glared at the two men looming over him, trying to discern which one was “Pit.” Both outlaws were of roughly equal height, though where one was florid and endowed with bulging muscles, the other had angular features, long black hair, a deep tan, and dark, darting eyes.

  The outlaw with the flaming red hair, beard, and mustache, who’d acted as spokesman and whose bare arms were smothered with dark blue spirals from wrist to shoulder, grabbed Alain by the hair and yanked him to his feet. “We havena time for such sport.” By the northern accent, which Alain recognized from a childhood visit to his mother’s relatives, he surmised this was the man called Pit. Tightening his grip, Pit planted a hard kiss full on Alain’s mouth. “Think that’ll do ye for now, lassie?”

  He itched to spit in Pit’s face but decided that would buy him more trouble than he could afford. Pit shoved him to his hands and knees in the dirt, adding another kick. He spat out Pit’s vile taste and dragged an arm across his face to erase the prickle of Pit’s whiskers.

  It didn’t help.

  Chortling, the two men stomped away, presumably to inflict their crude jests upon Ruaud, who’d been guarded across the camp. Alain rose to his knees, eyes shut and hands folded, trying to remember the morning prayer, but the only words to obey his summons were:

  Do you think she is worth the risk?

  Last night, he had felt certain. Now, he was anything but.

  The dull thuds of flesh striking flesh, accompanied by chortles and oaths and groans, drew his attention. Pit and his companion obscured the view. Whatever Ruaud had done, they were making him pay. Alain’s stomach writhed.

  Is she worth the risk?

  The hell of it was that now wasn’t the time to make a move on their guards. They were heading westward, toward Glastonbury, but their course proved nothing. He had no guarantee that Kendra would be waiting at the place these men were taking Waldron’s gold. The outlaws had insisted on Waldron providing half of their original demand to offset the cost of feeding extra mouths, though Alain expected to sup on no better fare than stale bread, moldy cheese, and sour ale.

  Is she worth it?

  He closed his eyes and bowed his head to pray for strength, wisdom, patience, guidance, opportunities—for anything useful that God might see fit to grant. An image hove to mind of the raped and beaten maidservant, sobbing in a wretched heap at Waldron’s feet. This time, when she lifted her head to regard Alain, her face looked agonized, beseeching, accusing…and it was Kendra’s.

  Is she?

  It galvanized him, and he redoubled the urgency of his prayer.

  Forgive me, Ruaud…

  A whack between the shoulder blades pitched him forward. He caught himself before hitting the ground, and regretted it as fresh pain lanced his left arm. Fighting to keep his expression neutral, he pushed to his feet.

  The third guard said, “Prayer time’s over, Saint Pretty Boy.” He deposited the chest of gold into Alain’s hands. “Go help your fonging mate load up.” The man tossed a nod toward his companions, who’d seated themselves around the fire to break fast. “Hurry, or there’ll be nothing left.”

  Alain watched in amazement as the man left him and Ruaud unbound and unguarded with the gold and horses as if knowing escape was not Alain’s intent.

  Faced with such a tempting opportunity, he considered bolting back to Edgarburh to enlist Waldron’s men as reinforcements but discarded the idea. For one thing, these outlaws knew the land. Though it had been full dark when they’d departed, Alain had a fairly clear sense of the way back, but he suspected that obstacles he hadn’t noticed before could slow their escape. Even if by some miracle he and Ruaud eluded pursuit, they would remain ignorant of Kendra’s whereabouts. The passage of time and the confusion of trails would make tracking her nigh impossible, and her captors, alerted to the possibility of a frontal assault, would fortify their defenses.

  In such a scenario, Kendra would be the loser.

  With a glance at the outlaws, who were sharing a jest and not paying him any mind, he walked to the picket line. Face to face over the back of Waldron’s packhorse was the closest the outlaws had permitted him and Ruaud to come. Ruaud’s condition stabbed Alain with guilt. His face was bruised, his lip was split and bloody, and the darkening flesh around one eye was beginning to swell it shut. The other glared at Alain.

  “I am sorry.” Alain’s words sounded pitifully inadequate.

  Ruaud snorted and bent to secure the pack’s frame. Straightening, he nodded toward their captors. “We should leave while we have the chance.” Urgency dominated his tone.

  Alain concentrated on securing the chest to the frame. With luck, he’d be able to recover Waldron’s gold as well as his daughter. Not making eye contact with Ruaud, he said, “This is my only means of locating Kendra. You go, if you must. I will not give up now.”

  Ruaud squatted to check the horse’s chest harness. “I expected you to spout some damned foolishness like that.” Standing, he rubbed his jaw and winced when he touched a bruise.

 
“Why did they—”

  “The one called Raven made a suggestion I did not like.” Alain guessed he was referring to Pit’s partner, the dark, angular man. Ruaud looked at Alain with a hint of his usual humor. “I will live.”

  “Get over here and make water on the fire,” called Raven from his fireside perch. Alain cocked an eyebrow. “Move your shite-covered Norman arses, or we’ll move them for you!”

  A deep laugh rang out. “Think ye King William will pay us double for opening them up a wee bit for him?” Pit, again.

  His back to the Saxons, Alain whispered, “She is worth it.”

  The look Ruaud shot back as they returned to the outlaws and prepared to carry out their command conveyed the thought that she had damned well better be.

  THE DAY dawned cloudless, bright, and hot. Kendra and her captors broke camp early, taking time just to relieve themselves, eat cold travel rations, douse the fire’s remains, and stow the cooking implements. Across ridges, high rolling plains, and valleys, they rode away from the rising sun. Sometimes they rode at a canter or trot, and sometimes they dismounted to lead their animals, the terrain dictating the pace. She couldn’t decide which was worse: the aching muscles, the itchy trickles of sweat on her face and back and legs, the sharp smell of the men and horses, or the bone-deep fatigue.

  Or the festering worry that she would never see anyone she loved again.

  With the sun past its zenith, Snake raised his fist, and the party drew rein. For the past hour, they’d been riding the spine of a natural causeway across a marsh. As the causeway narrowed, the swarms of gnats and biting flies intensified. She pitied the horses, whose ears and tails constantly twitched the pests away, to little effect.

  At the causeway’s end, the marshy ground yielded to vast swampland. Cattails, horsetails, iris fronds, marsh grass, and other tall, water-loving plants waved in the languid breeze. Willows dotted the swamp, their branches sweeping across the water’s surface as if testing the temperature. Wild geese and ducks abounded, their calls filling the air with noisy abandon, and a heron regally stalked fish in the green-hued shallows.

  In the hazy distance stood what looked like an island, though Kendra knew from her mother’s tales that it wasn’t one. The conical hill was called the Tor. Its slopes were cloaked with the ruins of a maze, its summit crowned with a tower. In its bowels, according to local legend, slept the greatest enemy the Saxons had ever known, Arthur of the Britons. Some visitors claimed to have heard the faint but unmistakable sounds of battle. Others swore they’d seen King Arthur in the light of a full moon, spurring a fiery-eyed white stallion and wielding a fearsome broadsword, a fierce black war hound lunging at his side.

  She closed her eyes, suppressing a shudder.

  But even the thought of being rescued by her people’s ancient enemy—however impossible—seemed more appealing than the wretched reality of her situation.

  She heard the creaks and jingling of harnesses as Snake and Rat dismounted and tethered their horses. Not knowing what else to do, she opened her eyes and followed their example, looping Hilde’s reins over a low branch.

  Snake stumped over to a massive oak and thrust his arm into a hole in the trunk, to the shoulder. His face contorted in concentration. Finally, his expression transformed into triumph, and he withdrew his hand, clutching a hunting horn that looked to be in far better condition than its lodging suggested. He sucked in a breath, lifted the horn to his lips, and blew a deafening blast.

  “What happens now?” she asked him after the ringing in her ears subsided.

  Snake replaced the horn, returned to his mount, retrieved food and his wineskin, which had been refilled that morning from a cask stored in the temple, and motioned Kendra to join him in the oak’s shade. She was glad that Rat had chosen to remain with the horses.

  “Now, my lady”—Snake passed her hunks of bread and cheese, his grin shifting into a feral cast—“we wait.”

  She followed the line of his gaze toward the Tor, mesmerized by the ripples gouged by the relentless wind.

  What they were waiting for, she dared not ask.

  AN INSISTENT hand shook Waldron’s shoulder. He started awake, trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment that he’d overslept in his chair on the feast hall’s dais with a legion of attendant aches. He pressed a hand to his pounding forehead and winced at the worst ale-head he’d ever experienced. His hand thudded onto the armrest as he remembered why.

  His daughter was missing, and his Norman guests had let themselves be captured in a foolish attempt to rescue her, leaving Waldron naught else to do but drink himself into oblivion.

  His guard captain came into focus. “Thorgil, what news?” Waldron didn’t voice the vain hope that Thorgil bore tidings of Kendra.

  “The patrol found Cæwlin and Oswy, my lord.” The big blond warrior’s face remained impassive, but Waldron read tension in the set of his jaw.

  “Dead.” Resignation weighted Waldron’s tone. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back against his chair.

  “Oswy is, my lord, though he must have fought bravely,” Thorgil replied. “Cæwlin is still senseless but alive. He suffered an arrow wound. Bassa is tending him.”

  Waldron’s eyes snapped open, and he rose. Too quickly; the throbbing intensified, and his senses reeled. Thorgil thrust out his hands to steady him, but Waldron shrugged him off. A welcome sense of purpose displaced the helplessness. “See to it Oswy is buried with the fyrd’s full honors. And have Lofwin report to me at the infirmary with a dozen of his best warriors and scouts.”

  “Thane Waldron, is that wise? The outlaws said—”

  “I know what the outlaws said.” Not repeating their threats helped to control the brutal imagery of Kendra’s fate, but not by much. “This is why I expect Lofwin to select the best.” Waldron was about to dismiss the warrior when another idea occurred. “And have our fastest courier report to me.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Thorgil thumped fist to breast and bowed his head, stepping aside to let Waldron pass.

  The warriors lay on adjacent cots in the infirmary. Father Æthelward was administering Oswy’s last rites. Stopping on the threshold, Waldron bowed his head until the priest had finished. Waldron made the sign of the cross against his chest and resumed his course.

  No matter how many times he had seen death, on or off the battlefield, he knew he’d never get accustomed to it. Oswy’s strengthening stench, unmoving chest, pale skin, sunken face, and bloodstained tunic and jerkin were bad enough, but Bassa had wrapped his head with a bandage. Even so, it didn’t hide the massive dent in the poor lad’s skull. Waldron’s gut twisted, and he crossed himself again.

  “I don’t believe he suffered, my lord,” murmured Bassa behind him. The peaceful cast to Oswy’s features lent substance to the physician’s pronouncement.

  “Thank God for small mercies.” He gripped the lad’s sword hand in farewell. To the sound of Æthelward’s soft “Amen,” Waldron faced the cot containing Bassa’s living charge. “And how is Cæwlin? When will he wake?”

  Bassa stroked his closely cropped beard. “Difficult to say, my lord. The arrow missed his heart, but the wound is infected. A day, perhaps two—”

  “Damn it, man, I need answers now!”

  “Which you won’t get, my lord,” said the physician, “if you kill my patient.”

  Mentally, Waldron began rehearsing his list of oaths but didn’t get far before recognizing the truth of Bassa’s claim. “Very well. Send me word the moment he wakes.” He turned and started for the door.

  “No need, my lord,” said a raspy voice.

  Waldron returned to Cæwlin’s side. Bassa pressed a cup to the warrior’s lips. Some of it dribbled out, and Cæwlin sputtered a cough. Waldron felt like quipping, Now who’s killing the patient? Instead he asked, “Who attacked you, Cæwlin?”

  “Outlaws.” The veteran’s brow creased and his gaze grew distant. “Five. From the west.” He shrugged and winced. “More than that, my lord, I do
n’t know. What of Lady Kendra?” The fragile hope in his tone shattered Waldron’s heart.

  “Being held for ransom.” Shaking his head, Waldron grunted his frustration. “West” could mean anything. Ulfric lived to the west, and so did Cynewulf, Oesc, Wihtred, Thorgud, Edgert, and dozens of other thanes. Waldron didn’t stand on amiable terms with many of them, especially after paying court to King William, but he couldn’t imagine a thane in the lot who would resort to abducting his daughter in retribution. “Think, man. Are you sure you don’t remember anything else? Distinctive clothing, adornments, mannerisms, speech?”

  Cæwlin’s fist weakly thumped the cot. “Don’t you think I’d have told you?” His face colored, and he jerked his head aside. “Forgive me, my lord.” Tears sprang from the corners of his eyes.

  Waldron laid a hand on Cæwlin’s uninjured shoulder. “I know you did your best, old friend.” He glanced at the adjacent cot. You and poor Oswy. Waldron sighed.

  The sound of brisk voices caught his attention, and he turned toward it. “Ah, Lofwin, well come.” Waldron made a beckoning gesture. Lofwin ordered his men to wait outside while he entered the infirmary, stepping with catlike grace between men, cots, and implement-laden tables to reach Waldron’s side. “I want you to track the outlaws who left with our Norman guests last night”—he lifted a peremptory finger—“and don’t bother to lecture me about the risks. I’ve heard that one already. I trust you to be quick and quiet.”

  Lofwin cracked a grin and bowed. “My lord, not even the deer will mark our passage.”

  “God’s speed to you, then,” Waldron said. You shall need it. “Send word when you can.”

  Lofwin saluted and left with his men.

  Cæwlin struggled to rise. Bassa tried to stop him, but the lean physician had trouble keeping his grip on the determined warrior. “Unhand me, you fool-headed physician! I must go with them.”