The autumn night was chilly and damp. Thin slivers of fog hovered a foot in the air like ghostly ribbons. Crack’s churning forelegs tore through them, sending the mists spiraling away to cling around tree trunks and reeds. The only sound was the cold wind whistling by her red-tipped ears.
Crack suddenly threw himself up in the air, ploughing the earth into furrows with his hind legs, his head swinging to and fro in fury at the conflicting messages of bit and spur. Gwyn pulled harder on the reins and threw one terrified glance over her shoulder. It couldn’t be. Not so soon.
Hooves. Coming up on the road behind her. At a dead gallop.
She slapped the reins against his shoulder, sending him into a frenzied, bounding leap. Hair stuck to her neck in long, sweated claws. She plucked at them furiously, gasping for breath. Twice she craned her face over her shoulder and peered through the whip-like strands of hair. Each time there was nothing, only low ribbons of fog, deepening darkness, and the thundering of hooves dim beneath the sound of her pounding heart.
A third twist in the saddle brought the awful sight: the outline of five horsemen and their monstrous stallions on the crest of a small hill. With billowing capes, swords swinging from their sides, and steam pouring off their surging mounts, they looked like spectral beasts from Hell.
She dug her heels into Crack. The boggy, pockmarked highway was dangerous in daytime but an exercise in madness at night, which is why it was with a curse but no surprise that she almost pitched over the horse’s head as he went down on his knees, his hooves splayed in four different directions. A wave of mud crashed over the saddle.
She slithered off. The stallion threw his head into the air, his eyes red and wide and wild, then scrambled up and raced away into a stand of trees, leaving Gwyn on her knees in the centre of the road, muddy and bedraggled and utterly alone.
“Dear Lord, save me, for ’tisn’t possible to do so myself,” she whispered, staggering back to her feet.
The moon was rising and she could just make out the crossed swords that heralded Marcus’s device as the five soldiers advanced. One was a knight she recognized as part of Marcus’s personal guard: de Louth. The others were men-at-arms clad in hauberks and steel helms. She stood, wiping mud from her chin and chest.
On they came, the soft clop of hooves turning into a sucking sound as the horses waded into the edge of the wide mud puddle that had sent Crack flying. She locked her eyes on de Louth, riding two paces before the others. Five against one.
“My lady Guinevere?”
His voice carried in an eerie echo through the darkness. They were about twenty paces away. “My lady? Lord Endshire sent us to seek you.”
“You may tell him,” she said in a breathless pant, swirling her skirts around her ankles as if straightening them, “that you found me in good spirits, and do thank him for his concern.”
The knight paused, checking his horse momentarily. The others stopped behind him, dark mirrors. Their eyes were almost invisible under their helms, their noses covered by the trunk-shaped nasal that fell down from the steel.
De Louth cleared his throat. “He sent us to assure your safety.”
“Be assured, sirrah, Lord Marcus sent you to assure his
wealth
.”
De Louth touched his heels lightly to the horse’s side and began moving forward again. She swallowed a ball of fear. That would never do. Hair plastered to her mud-streaked face, she lifted her chin.
“I am well safe, sir, and would appreciate being left alone to be on my way.”
The men checked their progress again, exchanging glances.
“What foolishness, this, my lady?” De Louth’s voice was pitched around surprise. “We have left the king’s court behind where such pleasantries count for something. You are alone, unhorsed, on a deserted highway. And you think yourself safe?”
She shifted her weight and mud squished out of her slipper. “Safer than with your lord, methinks, and I will stay here until my horse returns.”
The knight chuckled, a low, amused sound as the five advanced further through the fog. “Do you know, my lady, there was rumour only yester morn of one of Henri’s spies inhabiting this very stretch of highway? What do you think he would do if he found one such as you upon it?”
“Mayhap the same as you? Truss me up on the back of a horse and take me where I don’t want to be?” She pushed her sleeves up her arms. They slid back down to her wrists, wide, embroidered things that were more irritating at the moment than was warranted. “I have already been enlightened as to what awaits me with my lord Marcus, and prefer to take my chances with the Norman rogue.”
“’Tisn’t a
chance
of what the baron will do, Lady Guinevere.” His steel conical helm was closer now, and mist-laden words rose out from beneath it. “’Tis quite certain, if you gainsay him.”
“Only if you bring me back.”
The small group fell silent, standing off in the mists. De Louth guided his men forward carefully, reining to a stop every few paces as if she were a wounded animal they were set to trap. The hooves of the huge warhorses settled in the mud, slid a few inches, then lifted again with sickening, sucking sounds.
A thick stand of trees extended on her left and right, an outcropping of forestland. Looking frantically over her shoulder, she saw only an empty road and darkness. No buildings, no people, no escape.
Wild-eyed, she scooped up a handful of rocks and retreated a pace. They came on. Backing up again, she ran smack into a tree.
“This isn’t going as you planned, is it?” asked the tree.
Fear oozed down her spine. She lifted her face to behold a towering caped figure. Sheer black against the mists, his square-shouldered silhouette with trailing cape was like a mythical beast. She moved her mouth, but no sound came out. From eight inches above, his eyes were fixed on d’Endshire’s men.
“Step behind me, lady.”
“What?”
“Step behind me if you would be safe.” Grey-blue eyes flicked down briefly and she saw the outline of a fixed jaw and straight nose before he lifted his head again. “Why do they want you?”
“Do you know who they are?” she murmured through utterly dry lips.
“I do.” His voice was low, rumbling and unruffled.
She looked at the halted line of soldiers. They were staring in amazement at the sudden apparition and she felt the first inkling of reprieve. A bit of moisture seeped back into her mouth.
With one arm the apparition flung back his cape and stepped in front of her. “Why do they want you?” he prompted calmly.
“
They
don’t. Lord Endshire does.”
Something flickered in the gaze he dropped to her. “Marcus fitzMiles wants you?”
“Not quite. My money.”
“Ahh,” he said companionably, his eyes on the now-advancing line of knights. “He’s never been one for surprises.”
“Who dares assault my lord’s betrothed?” called out de Louth. The soft hiss of swords sliding from scabbards made a steely-leather hush in the damp darkness, then there was silence.
“I’m not his betrothed!” she shouted over her saviour’s arm, then lowered her voice. “He sent his men to assure me I wished to wed him.”
“Mmm.” Silence except for the sound of back-stepping boots and advancing hooves. “They’ve done a rather poor job of it.”
“The army at my castle was to succeed should they fail.”
“No surprises,” she heard him mutter.
Then, before her mind could register movement, he swung to his right under a giant oak tree and raised the most monstrous-looking longbow she’d ever seen. He tugged one of three arrows from his belt. Sweeping the bow in an arc overhead, he pulled the string taut to his jawline and peered down the length of the weapon.
De Louth flung his arm to the side, halting his men. “We want only the lady, rogue,” he called out. “You’ll not be taken to the sheriff, nor accosted in any way. You have my word on that. Just give us the woman.”
He barked in genuine laughter, the sound startling amidst the deadly, somber scene. “And you have my word on this: you will leave without the lady. If you try to take her, your blood will spill across the false king’s highway. And you will still leave without her. Go, now.”
Gwyn started.
False king’s highway
?
“Not without the woman.”
The apparition, who was becoming quite real, lowered a square chin and sighted along the arrow shaft. “The lady stays.”
One of de Louth’s men spurred his horse forward, visions of gallant knights brighter in his mind than good sense. An arrow hummed in the air and sliced through his windpipe. He slid off, spinning as he fell. Gwyn caught a glimpse of a wicked tip, bathed red, nuzzling out the other side. A flutter of bloody hands, a strangled cry, and the soldier hunched sideways, dead on the road.
The other four stared in astonishment, but the man at her side already had another arrow notched and ready for flight. Silence descended. The terms were clear: no more arrows would be launched if they left, and they were not leaving.
“Oh my,” she breathed, touching his arm. “You’ve killed one of Marcus’s men. He will not be pleased.”
In the distance, de Louth dropped his foot from the stirrup and kicked the dead man onto his back.
“Endshire’s pleasure has never been my concern.”
She dragged her gaze up to his shadowed face. “You are either foolish or mad. Let me tell you of Marcus’s pleasures. Once he was so enraged by the death of his merlin that he smeared his falconer, d’Aubry, with honey and staked him on an anthill for five days. D’Aubry did not return, at least not all of him.”
He glanced at her.
“Marcus has served honey at every meal since. Warmed over,” she emphasised.
A pair of muscular shoulders shrugged. “As I said, Endshire’s pleasures are not my concern,” he murmured, and something close to comfort pulsed through her heart.
Reaching down, de Louth tugged the arrow free from the dead man and looked at it. A glint of silver flashed across the road as the moon emerged from behind the clouds, then de Louth dropped the arrow. He slid his boot back into the stirrup.
Gwyn wrapped her cape tighter around her shoulders. “I ought to force you to leave this matter to me—or me to it—and take your leave, while your hide is still intact.”
“I would not go.”
“And I would not have you end up as d’Aubry the falconer.”
“My hide is not a matter for Endshire to decide.” He glanced down, one corner of his mouth crooked in an infinitesimal grin. “And I prefer sweeter things than honey, my lady.”
She was about to smile back, could have smiled,
wanted
to, but didn’t. It simply did not make sense, given the circumstances.
De Louth was straightening in his saddle, turning to his men and speaking in a low voice.
“Well,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “if you’re so determined to see to your death, I won’t be ungrateful.” Neither of them looked away from the line of sword-bearing soldiers as they continued their conference in low voices.
“Have you a weapon?” he asked.
“A rock.”
“A
rock
? Do you know how to throw one?”
“Know how to throw one? Perdition! You just…throw it.”
He grunted, and the men dropped off their horses. In the length of time it took her to inhale, her rescuer had dropped his bow, unsheathed his sword, and pushed her behind him, away from the circle of soldiers closing in on him.
All bore broadswords and some held falchions and wickedly sharp daggers. They came forward in a jagged arc. The forest hunkered on the other side.
Her liberator swung at legs and arms, desperately outnumbered, but did not appear desperate in the least. He crouched on slightly bent knees, his eyes flitting back and forth with an expert’s care, moving with the grace of years of practice.
One of the soldiers stabbed forward, slicing her saviour’s tunic open before he leapt back. His unmarked surcoat and tunic fell away, revealing the steel rings of a mailcoat. He wore armour. Expensive armour that was well-fitted, and carried a gleaming sword worth a small manor.
Who was this rich rogue who stalked deserted highways and rescued demoiselles in distress, at peril to his own obviously noble neck?
Another clash of steel rang out, more flashing sparks, and another de Louth minion went down, dead on the road. Everyone backed up a few wary steps, and all was quiet except for laboured breathing and the gritty sound of boots on dirt as the men circled one another.
Sheer numbers assured Marcus’s men of their victory, although their eyes flicked occasionally to their slumped comrades with a wary glance. Neither party appeared willing to abandon the fight.
“I think we’ve got them now,” Gwyn observed between pants as she kept her body conspicuously behind her warrior’s rock hard, pounding-heat body.
“You do, eh?”
She gripped several rocks so tightly. “I do.”
He swept his gaze down for a second with a faint smile. Blue-grey eyes, a body packed so solid with muscle it was like a mountain, and that smile. She felt another wild spark of hope. Three against one were not favourable odds.
On the other hand, it used to be
five
against one.
Another surge of reckless hope. It forced a smile through her fear.
“You’re enjoying this?” he enquired, looking back at their assailants. “There’s a riot by the bridge I can take you to when we’re finished here.”
“This will do nicely, thank you.”
He suddenly pushed her, hard, away from the circle of soldiers closing in on him. De Louth and his minions advanced in a line this time, swords grasped with two hands and swinging before their bodies. They backed her saviour up against the edge of the forest. His boots slopped through the muck.
Gwyn started flinging rocks, trying to distract them, but no one noticed. Perhaps that was because she hadn’t hit anyone. Cursing herself, she scooped up another handful and pelted the men with the small, stinging missiles. One clanged against de Louth’s helm.
As if it mattered. She might be what they were hunting, but she mattered naught anymore. Blood-lust had overtaken their ‘rescue’ mission, and she could hear their soft grunts as they parried closer and closer to their prey, taking no notice that they shoved her out of range as they did so.