Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (33 page)

And then a horrible sound rose within her steel helm, a soft keening that blossomed into a wail so deeply despondent that all who were near crossed themselves superstitiously. She wondered vaguely who was making such an anguished noise, wishing it would stop.

Stephen whipped his head around sharply. That voice! He stared at his captive, trying in vain to see through the shadowed slit of the knight’s helm. But even blind, he knew the voice of a woman. The blood stilled in his veins. Suddenly it was clear to him—who the champion must be and why Holden had given those orders.

Before anyone else could catch on to the deception, he had to stop her wailing. With a grimace of regret, he cuffed her, just hard enough to startle the sound from her. Then he hurried to do his lord’s bidding, picking up her sword, leading her away from the field of battle and toward the wood.

From his perch, Owen whined in protest as his Scots prize was abducted under his nose. “Nay!” he shrieked. “You can’t take my…my champion!”

“You have the castle!” her captor roared back. “You’ve won Blackhaugh! The knight is ours!”

“But…” Owen began, and then he decided it was no use. He’d been confounded on two counts—de Ware had never discovered his slayer, and now the wench was lost to both of them. At least, he consoled himself, he’d won Blackhaugh. He also held the hostages, and while Holden de Ware was no longer alive to demand them, someone would pay to see them come to no harm. His mouth watered as he thought about the vast wealth of the de Ware family that had fostered him.

Stephen knew, cleaving to Lady Cambria’s side as she stumbled along, that if he didn’t guide her, she’d wander aimlessly off, so deep was her despair. He pushed aside saplings crowding the path so the branches wouldn’t slap her, though from her eerie, detached silence, he doubted she’d even feel them. They waded through the brambles to a stand of maples whose bright-leaved limbs made a thick canopy overhead.

Stephen cast a wary eye behind him to be sure no one followed. Then he sheathed his sword and led her gently along the overgrown trail. As they progressed through the densest part of the forest, past groves of massive oaks and ancient conifers, he periodically stopped to bend the branches of the trees into the letter
H,
the discreet mark Holden and his men had used since they were lads. Holden would find them easily.

At last, they entered a clearing in the wood where an old diseased pine had toppled amidst a circle of its companions and a little light filtered down through the interwoven branches. He halted Cambria, grasping her shoulders in concern.

“Lady Cambria?”

She gave no response, and her arms were limp under his fingers. He longed to reassure her—what hell she must be suffering to believe she’d slain her husband—and yet she had willingly engaged in the fight. Besides, it was not for him to conjecture or elaborate upon the succinct instructions Lord Holden had given him. He was to keep her safe and secret, no more. He moved away, kicking in frustration at a tuft of dead moss clinging to the decaying log, and then cleared his throat.

“He must love you well,” he murmured, watching a trail of ants traverse the worm-eaten bark. “A man would
have
to love a woman to let her wound him like that.”

His words appeared to fall on deaf ears. Damn it, something should be done for her. “Have faith, my lady,” he blurted out, “and everything will be set to rights. I swear it.”

The lady’s silence was unnerving. Perhaps if he could see her face, her eyes… “You must be sweltering in there,” he said with false levity. “Allow me, please.”

He tentatively reached forward to take her helm between his palms. His hands trembled oddly, as if they feared what they’d discover. Then he grumbled at his own hesitation and with great care, he loosened the helm, lifting it gingerly from her shoulders.

What he found beneath made his trembling increase, not with fear, but with rage. He flung the helm to the forest floor with a violent oath.

The gentle lady was gagged cruelly, the rag about her mouth so tight that it nearly cut into her cheeks. One eye was purple and swollen, and her brow was split, leaving a crusted trail of blood. Her hair was a hopeless tangle, and sweat trickled in dirty rivulets down her face. She drew in labored, whistling breaths through her quivering nose. Worse, however, was her vacant stare, the emotionless glaze that told him she’d abandoned all hope. He’d seen that look a hundred times on widows’ faces.

Tenderly, he loosed the knot in the gag. He swallowed anxiously, anticipating Holden’s wrath when he discovered Cambria’s injuries, wondering with a shudder what would become of the one who’d caused them. For the moment, at least, in the undisturbed peace of the deep wood, he’d offer the lady what small comfort he could.

Owen’s triumphant grin tightened. Something was wrong. He couldn’t quite grasp the elusive reason for his sense of discord, but something was very definitely wrong. Why was the courtyard below so quiet? Usually at least a score of maidservants flitted about, tending to the animals, drawing water from the well, preparing food. A stealthy foreboding crept up on him like a storm cloud preparing to loose its burden of bad tidings.

“The keys!” he hissed, patting his thigh where they used to hang, searching his memory, and finally recalling the old woman with the dagger.

He spun so quickly away from the window that he tripped over the pile of Cambria’s chains and dropped the fiery brand he’d used to threaten the girl. Before he could move away, the flame of the fallen torch licked at the hem of his surcoat, finding nourishment.

He had no time for this, he thought absurdly, batting at the fabric. But his motions only fanned the flame. The material smoked and curled, singed black by its fiery predator. He slapped frantically at the smoldering garment, finally unbuckling his swordbelt and flinging the tabard off over his head, hurling it into the corner where it continued to happily devour itself.

Owen ran a shaky hand over his face. He had to think. The prisoners were loose. He knew that now. The brief taste of victory he’d enjoyed curdled on his tongue. He should have slain them all when he had the chance. The Gavins were probably marshaling their men even now to gain command of the castle. And, he thought, watching the tiny flames lose interest in his surcoat to leap playfully toward the tapestry, they’d eventually come for him.

Unless…

Holden wasn’t about to let his knights go in after Owen alone. He’d given his sweat and blood to win the castle back, and he wanted to see Owen’s miserable face when Lord Holden de Ware rose as if from the dead to claim Blackhaugh. So, despite his men’s protests, he cast off his hauberk, hastily bandaged the worst of his injuries, and limped through the gates to the courtyard under his own power. The servants were glad to see him, and while the rebel Scots obviously didn’t relish allying themselves with the English, Robbie had learned about the lesser of evils. Full of remorse, he led Holden to the tower himself.

The situation was still precarious—Holden dared not endanger any hostage Owen might yet have with him. He drew his sword, remaining at the foot of the stairs while two of his men stealthily climbed the spiraling steps, their boots making muffled scrapes on the stones as they ascended.

The door to the tower room was closed, but not bolted. The first knight heaved it open with his shoulder while the other slipped his sword through the opening. But a blast of heat and orange flame sent them staggering back. Thick smoke billowed out around them like a frothing ocean wave.

“Careful!” Holden shouted, afraid Owen had set some diabolical trap.

The men waved the noxious fumes away and squinted through the fire.

“No one’s here, my lord!”

“Wait!” coughed the second, pointing. “In the corner. A knight’s tabard, burning. The crest-it’s…it’s Fitzroi’s.”

Holden scowled. Owen? Burned to death? How?

“Fitting end for the devil,” Guy muttered beside him.

The surrounding knights murmured in agreement as the two men retreated swiftly down the stairs. Holden sheathed his sword, baffled. How could Owen be dead? Without a fight? Without a last stand? His demise had come too swiftly, too…conveniently. Or perhaps, Holden thought grimly, he was only feeling cheated of his vengeance. He’d wanted to tear the monster limb from limb for what he’d done to Cambria. But whatever his doubts, they’d have to wait. The castle was in danger of incinerating.

“Garth, assemble teams to fight the blaze!” he commanded.

The castle denizens sprang to life under Garth’s charge, evacuating the other chambers, moving trunks and livestock and food, fetching water in wooden buckets.

Holden scanned the tower. What he looked for, he wasn’t sure. But something unsettled him. All Owen’s careful plotting, his narrow escapes, his twisted schemes…destroyed in the blink of an eye. By fire. Why fire?

He knew the answer at once. Fire left no footprint, no evidence.

So who had set the blaze?

“Bloody hell!”

Ignoring the sharp pain that lanced across his bandaged chest, he wheeled and hobbled through the scurrying servants and soldiers toward the gate as fast as he could.

Just in time. As he rounded the curtain wall, Owen dropped to the ground from a long iron chain suspended from the tower embrasure. The released chain buckled and banged against the stones like a deranged black snake as Owen stumbled forward on his injured leg.

Holden clenched his teeth and unsheathed. “Turn and fight, coward!”

Astounded, Owen staggered. His eyes widened in disbelief. “How…?“

“Draw your weapon!”

Owen gaped on, his jaw loose. “You should be dead.”

“As should you, for what you did to my wife,” Holden replied, steeling his jaw. “I’ve come to make sure of it.”

Owen’s eyes flitted wildly about, weighing the possibility of escape and coming up short.

“Prepare to die,” Holden ground out.

Owen nervously licked his lips. “It won’t be a fair fight. I’m wounded.”

“We’re both wounded. Draw your blade, and die like a man.”

Biting out a foul oath, Owen reluctantly pulled forth his sword and crouched for combat.

Holden was at a disadvantage. He still wore his mail chausses, but his upper body was defenseless, naked but for the blood-soaked bandage. He had to depend wholly on the fact that he was the better swordsman.

Owen circled away, his eyes gleaming maliciously. “She’ll never forgive you, you know,” he sneered. “Those things you said.”

Owen was obviously trying to rattle him. It wouldn’t work. Holden advanced, slowly turning his blade in his grip.

“And then,” Owen added, “where will your precious Scots alliance be?”

The man didn’t know what he was talking about. Of course Cambria would forgive him. She was his wife, wasn’t she? As for the alliance…

Owen struck once, hard, against Holden’s injured side. Holden cursed under his breath. He should have seen that one coming.

“You’ve lost her,” Owen continued, creeping like a crab at the verge of Holden’s reach, “just like you’ll lose Blackhaugh.”

Holden slashed forward, slicing Owen’s arm, but not as deeply as he wanted to. Owen backed away, wheezing in pain.

“You may kill me,” Owen gasped, “but it won’t solve anything. She’ll never trust you again. The Scots will never trust you. You’ll lose the keep, and I’ll still win.”

Holden didn’t believe that for a moment. Cambria knew about the strategies of war—why he’d done what he’d done, what he’d been forced to say. He wiped his sweaty palm absently across his chest. It came back drenched in scarlet. Hell, he was dripping blood again. That last maneuver had torn open the gash.

“And you’ll always wonder,” Owen said, panting with malevolent cheer, “about the babe.”

Holden stumbled. Owen’s grinning face began to swim in his vision, doubling, tripling. A soft, soothing, dark cloud flirted at the edges of his sight. Lord, he couldn’t faint. Not now.

Desperate, he doubled his left fist, lifting it high. With sheer determination and force, he brought it down, pounding it as hard as he could against his wounded ribs. Pain burst through the fog of unconsciousness, wrenching a groan from him, but bringing him instantly awake.

“You’ll never know,” Owen taunted, nibbling at Holden’s soul like a crow after carrion, “if the child is yours or mine.”

Child? What child? What was Owen talking about? He swung his blade about, but Owen danced out of the way.

“You see,” Owen continued, huffing now, his eyes mad with his story, “I bedded the bitch.”

Holden couldn’t blot out the image that sprang to his mind—the repulsive, monstrous Owen sprawled atop Cambria. He slashed out again, but he could feel his strength ebbing. Owen dodged the blow.

“Oh, she wasn’t willing. You have
that
right.” He swung at Holden’s head and missed. “But it’s amazing what one can do with the proper restraints.”

Holden’s mouth twisted into a snarl. Owen had raped Cambria. He began to tremble with rage as he envisioned it: Owen’s filthy claws gripping her soft flesh, his foul mouth staining her skin with slavering kisses, his pathetic bird’s cock savaging her tender body.

“Oh, aye,” Owen crowed, limping out of Holden’s reach, “I pumped her quite full of my bastard seed, de Ware.”

A growl started low in Holden’s throat.

“So you’ll wonder yourself several months from now…” Owen leered, his eyes yellow with madness. He chopped forward twice, but Holden blocked his blows. “When she spews out that mewling babe…“

Holden tightened both hands around the hilt of his sword and hung on to consciousness by pure will.

Owen grinned in ugly triumph. “Whose is it?”

Volcanic wrath boiled up in Holden. All Owen’s evil, all his own pain, all Cambria’s suffering welled into a fount of fury, enraging and empowering him. He raised his sword high. The reflection of flames from the tower flashed gold along its sharp edge. And then he slashed downward.

The last thing he saw before the dark waters of unconsciousness closed over his eyes was Owen’s leering head tumbling from his shoulders.