Jacq's Warlord (5 page)

This I do beseech thee, Lord,

Before it is too late.”

Keeping her head bowed, Jacq paused for effect, unaware the silence of the crowd was due to the odd mist descending and swirling about her, thickening until her kneeling figure was all but obscured in a heavy fog.

* * * * *

1153 A.D.

Inch by inch, Rufus pushed himself and his mount through the blood and bodies, slashing and killing to avoid being killed by his enemy. The smell of death permeated the air. As the nauseating odor grew, time seemed to slow. Each breath rasped loudly; each heartbeat threatened to burst from his chest. And the damnable mist became so dense, it was difficult to discern friend from foe. Yet he continued to fight.

From the corner of his eye, Rufus watched as the soldier next to him grasped his side before tumbling lifelessly from his horse. His mind acknowledged him as a friend with whom he had fostered. Side by side they had learned the art of war and taken their knowledge numerous times into battle to emerge the victor. But today his friend lay in the mud, his body quickly growing cold in death.

A flush of red-hot fury washed over him, and Rufus roared out his rage. He felt his strength revive tenfold. Fighting like a madman, he hacked through soldiers, his sword cutting bloody arcs in the air.

Suddenly, he faced five soldiers and saw the fear that lit their eyes. He knew he must appear like a beast—blood and gore matted his arms and chain mail. Roaring again, he charged.

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They stumbled back in terror at the ferocity of his attack. Their hesitation was their undoing. In a flurry of violent strokes, they lay dead on the ground.

Many long seconds passed before his breathing returned to normal, and then he turned to face the next combatant. But there was none.

As he looked around, he could only see five or six feet in any direction around him.

The mist enveloped him completely, obstructing his view of any others on the field.

It was as if he were alone, although he heard the cries of others killing or dying in the distance. He turned his horse in confusion, wondering from which direction the cries came and which side of the enemy line he was on.

Then, a path cleared through the swirling mist and his heart skipped a beat as he spied a woman in a dark red dress, kneeling with her head bowed in prayer. Beyond her, an enemy knight charged in his direction. The woman knelt between them, sure to fall beneath the hooves of his enemy’s horse.

Rufus spurred his horse into action, racing time to save her.

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As the silence lengthened, Jacq waited for applause, her cue to raise her head and bow. Instead, she heard the distinct sound of a horse galloping across the earth, its hooves pounding so hard and near the reverberations shuddered through the slats of the platform.

Had a horse from the arena broken free?

Jacq brought her head up with a jerk to see a massive black beast charging through mist, aimed straight for her. Quickly, she stumbled to her feet.

Where had the mist come from so suddenly? It cut off her view of the crowd just beyond the hem of her skirt. Sound was muffled all around her, except for the deafening thunder of hooves.

Stranger still, a corridor bordered by mist opened to her right. Through it, she saw a knight on the horse’s back, wearing red-stained chain mail with a dimpled helmet covering his head. Together, they approached her platform at a fast clip.

Her hand clutched at her chest as the horse clattered up the steps. The knight’s gaze, so dark within the frame of the single eyepiece, bored into hers as he pulled the speeding horse to a halt in front of her.

How had he managed not to trample the spectators? she wondered, feeling a little dazed.

The air around her was so thick it was hard to breathe. Her heartbeats slowed—

everything moved in sluggish motion. Jacq wondered if she was about to faint—was that why she felt so odd?

The horse snorted and a humid gust of air formed a small cloud that hung in the air before her face. The knight kneed his horse and came up beside her, beckoning her with his hand.

Awesome. I wonder whose idea this is? I wish I’d thought of it.

Then time fast-forwarded.

Too stunned to attempt to evade, Jacq watched dumbly as he flung his heavy shield to the ground. When he reached out with his gloved hand, she attempted to step back, but he yanked her by her arm and pulled her across the saddle in front of him.

She landed on her stomach, the wind knocked out of her lungs. Desperate for air, she pushed helplessly against the side of the sweaty horse to ease the pressure on her ribs.
Whoever the actor is, he’s been consuming way too many steroids. This is taking things a
little too far.
Before she could regain her breath, the man wheeled his steed around and urged it away from the platform.

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The jolting motion continued as the horse galloped onward, his speed increasing if the ground flying past her frightened eyes was any gauge. Too breathless and dizzy to protest, Jacq held on for dear life until the horse slid to a halt and spun back in the opposite direction.

She pushed against the horse again, trying to slide off, but a heavy hand descended between her shoulder blades shoving her back down until her face rested against the hulking leg of her captor.

“Let me down,” Jacq demanded, but her words were muffled against his leg.

The hand on her back increased the pressure, smashing her face into the leather of his boots, effectively stemming the flow of words about to erupt from her mouth. She was going to kill the person who thought up this stunt. It wasn’t funny.

Gradually, the pressure against her ribs and the blood rushing to her head left her lightheaded. She had no choice but to wait until the idiot on the horse reached his destination to give him a piece of her mind.

Rufus held his breath, listening, his sword balanced at the ready, waiting for his enemy to thunder out of the mist to challenge Rufus for the prize he’d stolen.

The woman bucked under his hand and tried to yell through the thick leather of his boot.

He smacked her rump and hissed a warning, “Be quiet, fool woman. Unless you prefer to die.”

Finally, she stilled. Likely she had fainted since her body draped so limply.

Relieved, he tilted his head, straining to hear, but the knight who had charged him had disappeared.

As if the mist had swallowed both armies, everything had disappeared.

He wheeled his stallion, urging him it to move forward through the fog, in what he hoped was the direction he had come.

Soon, sounds penetrated the mist. The moans of wounded and dying soldiers rose around him. He nudged the flanks of his horse to move a little faster to discover whether they were friend or foe. The fog faded away to reveal bodies littering the field.

He recognized too many of his own men and felt a terrible loss. More certain of his direction now, he headed for the encampment.

Sunlight pierced through the canopy of the trees as he passed the edge of the forest, burning away the last remnants of the mist. He entered the camp to find the healthy helping the wounded and wrapping the dead in linen shrouds for burial. As he approached his tent, his twelve-year-old squire, Monty, raced up to capture the horse’s head, his face white and solemn.

“My lord, we thought you dead when you didn’t return with the others.”

“Well, I’m not,” Rufus responded in a flat tone. Then, grabbing a handful of the dress in front of him, he lifted the limp form.

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“Take her to my tent.” He eased her from the saddle into the waiting arms of the squire, who immediately crumpled under her weight. He dismounted and tossed the reins and his helmet to another young knight-in-training, and then turned to go.

“But, my lord, what shall I do with her?” Monty asked, still sprawled on the ground with the woman draped across him.

Weary, Rufus answered him sharply. “I don’t care, but keep her in my tent until I return.”

Rufus walked only a few steps when he heard movement behind him.

“My lord,” Monty yelped.

Before he could turn back, a hurling ball of fury struck his back. The force of the impact staggered him, but he regained his balance as red-clad arms wrapped tightly around his neck, choking him, and a woman’s voice screamed into his ear in a language he couldn’t understand.

He pried her arms loose from his neck and twisted under them to face his attacker, then dodged a well-aimed kick. Exasperated, he quickly subdued her, clasping both her hands in one of his behind her back. “Cease this nonsense, woman,” he roared.

The dark-haired virago roared back, surprising him with her lack of fear as demonstrated by her foot making contact with his mail-clad shin.

“Damnation.” He hadn’t time for this now. Weary to the bone and anxious to find out what had taken place on the battlefield, he turned to his squire.

He shot a glance at Monty. “Fetch me a rope.”

The boy’s eyes widened.

“I’ll tie her up for now. Gag her if she refuses to be quiet.”

The boy leapt to obey.

Rufus dragged the woman close to hold her squirming body immobile until, panting with exertion, she finally quieted.

Far from subdued, she glared at him, lips drawn back in a snarl.

Rufus studied his captive, noting her appearance for the first time. She was easily the tallest woman he had ever seen—and strong. No frail maiden here. Midnight-black hair fell in a soft cascade of curls down her back. Deep forest-green eyes grew more narrowed at his continued perusal.

“Milord, here’s the rope,” Monty’s voice interrupted the downward direction of his thoughts.

Rufus quickly tied her hands and feet. Then not wanting to expose any body parts to her teeth by carrying her, he grabbed her beneath her armpits and dragged her into his tent, dumping her onto the pile of furs on the ground.

He left the tent without a backward glance, ignoring her howl of rage and went in search of Donald. Though he was in a hurry for news, he stopped along the way when 29

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hailed by a young soldier, lying on his side on the ground. His helmet had been removed and his face was deathly gray.

“My lord, we thought you dead,” he gasped, as blood trickled from the side of his mouth.

His heart heavy, Rufus knelt at the young soldier’s side. “As you can see, I am not.”

“Thank the saints,” he whispered, closing his eyes as if the effort of speaking had sapped his strength.

Rufus lifted him, searching for the man’s injury. Familiar with the gruesome wounds that could be sustained during a battle, still his stomach clenched as he noted the missing arm and the pool of blood congealing beneath him. He laid him gently back.

“I have failed you, my lord.”

Rufus blinked and breathed deeply, before looking the young man squarely in the face. “No, Thomas,” he disagreed, his voice rough with emotion. “You have served me bravely. I can ask no more.”

As if relieved by his words, Thomas’ face eased and he relaxed his grip on life.

“Go with God.” Rufus stood, signaled to another soldier to see to Thomas’ body, and continued his search.

At the far edge of the camp, he found Donald. He was so relieved to see his friend lived, he almost smiled.

Donald was deep in discussion with a man Rufus recognized as one of their spies.

“Donald!” Rufus clapped a heavy hand against the big man’s shoulders.

“Milord.” Donald’s mouth hung open, his face ashen. “Rufus, we thought you dead.”

“Enough! You are the third to say the same.”

“But my lord, you’ve been missing for nearly half the day. When Braxton’s troops pulled back, we searched and searched but couldn’t find you. Where were you?”

“That’s impossible.” By his recollection, he had only been lost in the mist for a few moments. “There is time enough for explanations later. I will know what happened and why Braxton withdrew his forces, leaving before slaughtering us all.”

“We’ve just received news.” Donald nodded his head in the direction of the spy.

“King Stephen has recalled his armies to direct them against Duke Henry’s main force.

They’re gathering not far from here and will be moving out tomorrow.”

“How many men have we left?”

“We have only four and twenty soldiers remaining in our forces. And Rufus, Albermarle is dead.”

Rufus gave a curt nod before glancing away. “God rest their souls,” he said hoarsely.
So many lost.
“Gather those who are whole and organize them into emptying 30

Jacq’s Warlord

the wagons with the supplies we no longer need to sustain such a small force. We will need most of the wagons to carry the wounded home.”

Donald nodded solemnly. “And what about the dead?”

“Dig a single pit. As soon as the men have finished, you and I must decide how we will continue. We mustn’t allow Braxton to reach Duke Henry.”

“But how can such a puny army stop them?”

Rufus ignored the question. “Speaking of puny armies, any word from Sedgwick and his reinforcements?”

Donald snorted. “Surely, you jest. There’s blood on this field. You know from experience he has an aversion to blood.”

“Yes, well, he’d best worry it will be his own blood if he doesn’t come soon,” Rufus said. “We will think of something else, but first we must take care of the wounded and dead. I will leave you now to direct the soldiers. I must see to my captive.”

“Captive, my lord?”

“Yes, the reason for my disappearance.”

“You brought an enemy soldier here? Is he for our entertainment or torture?”

“
She
is for neither.”

“You brought a woman here?” Donald’s tired face lit with a smile. “Definitely for our entertainment then.”

“Not this one.” Rufus turned on his heel abruptly and left the other man staring after him.