Sharon Schulze (16 page)

What little she knew of them from Dickon didn’t inspire her with any hope in that regard.

That they might treat Padrig, Rafe and Dickon far worse than herself, she’d little doubt.

They’d no other choice but to leave this place. She’d not had a chance to discuss with Padrig what they’d do once they got away, but it made sense to her to retrace their route and return to l’Eau Clair. There were few villages between here and there, and nothing larger that she was aware of.

They had truly fetched up in the wilderness, with scant resources upon which to depend except themselves.

And Dickon.

The poor child had been on his own here for nigh a week. He’d taken refuge in the rocky hills during the attack. Once the Welsh had left the village and taken up residence in Winterbrooke, he’d crept back down to look for survivors and to forage for supplies.

There’d been plenty of food and clothing available, though he’d been careful to only take things from his parents’ home. Evidently the raiders hadn’t been interested in looting, not from poor village folk, at any rate.

All the people Dickon had found, however, were dead, cut down while they tried to defend themselves. Some had knelt and begged for their lives, or the lives of their children, and been murdered there in the streets.

Dickon had seen and heard enough before he ran off to show him these invaders possessed no mercy. Indeed, to his mind they’d gloried in their brutality.

Alys drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, seeking to calm her troubled soul. ’Twas difficult for her to imagine such pitiless actions, though she knew ’twas the way of war.

For all she knew, Padrig, Rafe, her own father and brother—perhaps any man would behave thus during the heat of battle.

Yet somehow she sensed that could not be true, not to the extent of cruelty displayed here.

From things she’d heard as she sought information for her chronicles, battle lust could sap the very ability to reason from some men, cause them to act in ways that would horrify them under normal circumstances.

Indeed, she knew herself to be capable of great fury without thought of the consequences. In defense of her family or friends, of her own honor, to protect a child… She couldn’t truthfully say just how far she would be willing to go.

However, she believed herself incapable of wanton violence for its own sake, of robbing and killing for the sport of it. She believed the men she knew incapable of it, as well.

Though perhaps that was simply a delusion she permitted herself, to keep from seeing their true faces.

While she’d not been paying attention to what Padrig and Dickon were saying, the sound of their voices murmuring had lent a pleasant background for her unsettling thoughts. The sound had stopped; she glanced up and found that while she’d been distracted by her thoughts, Dickon and Padrig had been busy.

Biting back a moan as her aching body protested movement, Alys got to her feet and went to see what they had done.

Using Rafe’s tunic and Padrig’s cloak, along with several sturdy branches, they had rigged up a litter for Rafe. He lay facedown, tied to the framework with wide strips of cloth.

It looked hellishly uncomfortable for him, and would doubtless be difficult for Padrig to move.

Not to mention…well, she
would
point out the flaw she could see with this plan.

Though unfortunately, she hadn’t a better one to suggest in its place.

Padrig finished tying the last knot and stood, shifting his sword belt back into place. “I’m not certain how well it will work, for ’tis flimsier than I like, but I don’t know how else to move him while he’s like this. He scarcely made a sound when we shifted him about to get him on the frame. His eyelids didn’t so much as flicker, though we must have hurt him.”

“Won’t we leave a trail if we drag this over the ground?” she asked, watching Padrig’s face as she brought up her concern. “How will we keep the Welsh from following us? They’re bound to move much faster than we can. They may catch up to us before we can get very far away.”

“Rafe was right, milady, you are a clever lass.” Padrig grinned, the look in his eyes sending heat flowing through her in a completely inappropriate way.

She’d expected him to be upset by what she’d said. His approval confused her, though she’d happily accept compliments from him, especially when they were accompanied by such a look….

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

He reached out and tapped her on the cheek with his finger, his mouth still quirked in a smile. “I mean that you’re right. ’Twould be folly to drag this over the ground for any distance.” He waved at Dickon, who stood on the other side of the litter, holding a strong, leafy bough in his hands like a broom. “Thanks to Dickon, we needn’t go far before we can travel beneath the earth. As long as he can wipe away the trail we leave from here, I doubt anyone will find us where we’re going.”

“And where might that be?” Alys asked warily, though she was afraid she already knew.

Dickon fairly danced with excitement, his smile a slash of white in his filthy face. “Didn’t ye wonder how I got here earlier, milady? You didn’t see me comin’ and I surprised ye, didn’t I?”

“Aye, you did,” she admitted. He’d nearly made her heart stop beating!

“That’s ’cause I popped out o’ the ground like a rabbit,” he told her. “Come on, I’ll show you where I came from.”

A
lys found herself turning to peer back over her shoulder at Winterbrooke Manor as they slowly made their way through the trees toward the hidden entrance to the Devil’s Lair. The keep looked quiet, its gray stone gleaming in the afternoon sun.

’Twas naught but a foul deception, as so much in life appeared to be.

Why hadn’t anyone come after them yet? She refused to believe the Welsh would simply leave them be.

There was not a sign of the short battle that had raged earlier at the gates, but the image remained etched in her mind’s eye.

She would not rest, she vowed, until they’d found a way to free the people of Winterbrooke, if there were any left, and those of their own party who had been lured within those shimmering walls.

’Twas not a long trek, as Dickon had said, but the hard-packed track they traveled was rough going, passing over jagged stones and through a heavy undergrowth of brush and small trees.

Once Dickon had set Padrig, towing the litter behind him, upon the path, the lad fell into line behind Alys. He used his makeshift broom with great diligence, whisking away any tracks the litter made, and making certain they hadn’t left a trail of bent or broken branches in their wake.

Padrig had the more difficult task, for it looked to Alys as though he was practically carrying the litter. Whether that was because it didn’t move easily, or because he was trying to keep from jolting Rafe along the uneven ground, she couldn’t tell, but a steady stream of sweat trickled down his face and neck, and his tanned face grew rosy with exertion.

He had to be in pain, as well. The bandage she’d placed over the arrowhead in his shoulder kept her from seeing whether the wound had begun to bleed from his exertions. Even if it had not, it had to hurt like the devil to be carrying a piece of metal embedded in his flesh.

There was naught more she could do about it for now. She’d be better served to focus upon putting one foot in front of the other. Weariness dogged her every step, making her movements awkward and her feet clumsy.

She could not imagine how Padrig kept going. He’d had no rest at all that she knew of. He’d walked here from their encampment while she rode, had fought hard against several foes. Now, injured, he must haul along a tall, well-muscled man, working as though he were a packhorse. She had no idea how he did it all, but she was very grateful for everything he’d done.

Lord Rannulf could not have chosen a better leader for her guard than Padrig.

And so she’d tell him, should they survive to see him again.

They were moving so slowly, she had no problem keeping up, but she feared that would change once they reached the tunnel. According to Dickon, ’twas but one entrance to a vast maze of passageways that ran underground, like a huge honeycomb beneath the entire area. Most of the tunnels Dickon knew about led into the heart of the Devil’s Lair. From there, several traveled quite a distance from the outcropping itself.

Dickon was a smart lad. He’d set up a series of snares and alarms within the passageways, so he’d always know if anyone had got in, or was coming in. Once they were inside the Lair, they’d likely be as safe as if they were in their own fortification.

’Twould be a blessing, indeed, to lose the constant sensation of being hunted she’d felt since the first barrage of arrows from Winterbrooke.

The notion of passing under the ground like a mole did not lend itself to her, but even less did she like the idea of capture by the Welsh. She’d grit her teeth and crawl through hell itself if necessary, if ’twould lead them safely away.

“Here we are, Sir Padrig,” Dickon said quietly. He leaned his broom against a tree and edged past Alys, joining Padrig as the knight lowered the litter to the ground.

They stood at the foot of a grass-and-bush-covered dirt mound. Boulders lay scattered over its surface, most big enough to hide a man, but none so large as to provide cover for two.

Alys saw nothing to hint at the fact that there was an entrance to anything here. Save for the fact that the mound was hidden from the keep by a stand of tall trees, there wasn’t anything notable about it at all.

“It’s down in here,” Dickon said. “I’ll go take care of the snares.” He ran past them, wriggled into a pile of large, flat stones jutting out of the hillside and disappeared.

Alys and Padrig moved toward the pile more slowly, Padrig shaking his head and Alys trying to stifle her disappointment.

“Damnation! I doubt he meant to mislead us,” Padrig said. “But he cannot have understood what we needed, either.”

“Mayhap if we take Rafe off the litter, and the three of us try to move him—”

“Milady, Sir Padrig, come along.” Dickon popped up out of the rocks, gesturing impatiently to them. “We need to get going before ’tis dark, else we won’t be able to see to go get to the torches.”

“Torches?” Alys asked.

“This part of the tunnel is too low to carry a torch, but there’s a bit o’ light comes through it, enough so we can see where we’re goin’.” He scampered toward them, pausing to look up and gauge the sun’s position. “But we must hurry.”

Padrig climbed to the rocks and clambered over them, suddenly disappearing into them as swiftly as Dickon had done earlier. After a moment he stuck his head back out, a smile brightening his face. “The lad’s right, milady. We will fit within, even Rafe on the litter.” He levered himself from between the boulders. “’Twill be a bit of a challenge to get him in here, but after that, there’s room aplenty.”

“Will you need help getting Rafe down there?”

“Aye. But mayhap Dickon will be able to do it.” He came to stand beside her. “I don’t believe you should try this, Alys. ’Twas difficult enough for you to wield a
knife.” He took her hand in his and once again tested her ability to grasp his fingers. Her grip was still weak, of course, no matter that she’d squeezed as hard as she could. Shaking his head, he said, “Nay, I fear ’twould damage your shoulder more. You could keep watch for us, love, if you would. Let us know if anyone’s coming. I don’t know how long it’ll take to move Rafe down there.”

She ignored what he’d called her. Did he think to charm her into his way of thinking? She caught him by the arm when he would have walked away. “What of
your
shoulder, milord? How can you ignore it so easily? Does it not hurt?”

“Aye, it does hurt, when I let myself think of it.” He leaned closer to her, so his warm breath feathered her cheek. She held her breath lest she do something foolish—try to leap into his arms, mayhap.

She did meet his gaze, however, a mistake she realized at once. His eyes glowed dark blue, their intensity threatening to tempt her to further madness.

“The trick is to not think of it,” he murmured. “I try to fix my mind on something else as a distraction instead.”

“What could possibly divert your attention from this?” she asked once she found her voice, gently touching the bandage where it wound round his torso.

He captured her hand in his and laid it over his heart, holding it pressed there beneath his own. “You, Alys. Thoughts of you could distract me from just about anything.”

Had she felt the way his heart had raced beneath her hand? he wondered as he carefully dragged the litter up
the side of the mound. Had she realized the truth hidden in his words?

He
did
realize. What frightened him even more than what she might think of his boldness was the fact that he’d meant every word of it.

Had she noticed how endearments fell so easily from his lips, as though he’d the right to say them? In truth, he shouldn’t be calling her “Alys,” let alone “sweeting” or “love.”

Yet he found it difficult to think of her in any other way.

He hauled Rafe the last few yards to the entrance to the tunnel. Dickon had gone down into the tunnel to make certain the way was clear for Rafe’s litter.

Since he had to wait for the lad, Padrig checked that Rafe was all right, as much as he could be under the circumstances, anyway.

This prolonged swoon was odd for the injuries he’d sustained. Could he have hit his head, or been struck in the head while he was fighting? That, at least, might explain why he’d yet to awaken at all. Two arrows lodged in his back was not a good thing, but he ought to have come to his senses by now.

After assuring himself he’d done all that he could for Rafe for the moment, Padrig looked down the hill to make certain Alys had followed him. She moved cautiously up the hillside, her attention alternating between where she put her feet, and glancing behind her to make certain no one was following.

He’d noticed she had trouble moving with her arm bound, not to mention she had to be bruised and sore from the accident last night.

Lord Rannulf would not be best pleased, when next he saw Lady Alys. Padrig had been charged with her
care, with seeing her delivered safely to her father at Lord Henry Walsingham’s keep in the northern Marches.

At this point, he’d be happy if he could return her to l’Eau Clair without further mishap.

He settled on the pile of stones to wait for Alys, wondering, as he had when they first set out on this journey, whether he had been delivering Alys to her future husband. The notion had not set well with him
before
he’d come to know her.

Now ’twas likely to drive him mad.

Despite the relatively short duration of their relationship, he
did
feel he’d begun to know the real Alys. They’d experienced a great deal together in a brief time, more than many people shared in years.

He wanted to share more, to share everything, with her.

In reality, they’d share nothing beyond the remainder of this journey. Lord Rannulf would never permit him to accompany her again.

Were the occasion to arise. Which it very well might not.

He’d most likely demand an accounting from Padrig, as well, as would Alys’s father, no doubt.

Once Lord Roger learned of all the hazards his daughter had endured, he’d be likely to come for her himself.

Or mayhap, Padrig thought, torturing himself more, her father would send her future husband to escort her home. He could think of no other reason for Alys to be going directly to Lord Henry’s keep but that they were to be married.

The thought of her wed to Lord Henry, who was a notoriously vicious sot, disgusted Padrig beyond words.
’Twas rumored his late wife’s death had been sudden, unexpected and difficult to explain.

Could he permit Alys to meet that same fate?

She reached him, slightly out of breath from the climb, and perched beside him on the sun-warmed rocks. “’Tis a most lovely day, is it not, milord?” she asked, her voice and face both alight with amusement. “The sun is shining like a blessing upon us.”

Her hair blew in the faint breeze, trailing across his neck and arm. He caught the errant tresses in his hand and kept hold of them, his fingers twining in the silky strands. “Aye, ’tis lovely indeed,” he agreed. However, ’twas her face he gazed upon, not the sky. The scratches and bruises scattered over her skin, the smudge of dirt on her cheek, did little to detract from her beauty. “We’ve little to smile about, milady, yet something has brought a smile to your lips.”

A tinge of rosy color tinted her face, but she didn’t look away. “So far as we know, no one is after us for the nonce, no trees are falling atop our heads, and we’re alive. Is that not reason to smile, after the days we’ve had?”

He tugged lightly on her hair and shifted closer to her, until their arms were touching and he could see the flecks of gold mixed with light brown in her eyes. “’Tis the woman beside me who makes me smile,” he whispered, lowering his head till their mouths were but a breath apart. “And that is true no matter—”

“Milady!” Dickon’s voice, echoing slightly, sounded from right below them. Alys leapt to her feet as though she’d sat on a live coal. Padrig took his time getting to his feet, reminding himself all the while that Dickon was a fine lad who would show them the way out of their current predicament.

No good would come of snarling his frustration like a wounded boar and frightening the boy.

Though he’d wager ’twould take something unusual to alarm Dickon, after all he’d seen of late.

Dickon popped his head up out of the rocks. “’Tis fine, milord. A clear path for us all.” He turned and pulled himself up out of the hole. “’Tis just this part that’s hard, but once we’re in the passage, ’twill take no time at all to get to the Lair.”

Padrig cast one last look down the hill. No Welsh came after them. Alys was right, ’twas a beautiful day, after all.

He picked up the edge of the litter, then set it down. “Milady, let’s get you in first, shall we?”

Dickon had been correct. Once they got into the tunnel, it had been surprisingly easy to traverse the relatively smooth passageway. The low ceiling made it necessary to move at more of a half-crouch rather than walking. Only Dickon could stand upright.

Despite the limitations, they were able to move more swiftly than Padrig had anticipated. ’Twas a pleasant surprise, to have something go better than expected, instead of worse. He could only hope their good fortune continued.

Within a short time they reached a small chamber, a junction point where several tunnels met and branched off. The ceiling was higher here, permitting Alys and Padrig to stand upright with room to spare. They took advantage of the opportunity to rest while Dickon raced ahead to un-hook the snares, his voice echoing eerily off the damp stone walls as he explained where each branch led.

He returned with a pair of torches and a small bra
zier of coals. “I brought these from the village first off,” he explained. He placed the brazier carefully on the floor. “’Tis so wet here in some places, I couldn’t strike a spark to light a fire.”

He kindled the torches and handed one to Alys, who gave it back to him. “I’ll trip on my gown if I try to walk and carry this, as well,” she told him. She gathered her full skirts and tucked them up into her belt so they’d be out of the way. Her left hand free, she took the torch and stepped back to let Padrig, dragging the litter, move between her and Dickon.