Journey in Time (Knights in Time) (22 page)

The corners of Marguerite’s mouth dipped and her lips narrowed into a pink slash. She glared at Shakira then spun around. Her rough hide boots stirred the dust on the filthy floor as she stomped to the door and called out. A short, hefty woman about forty came in wiping beads of sweat from her face on a grimy apron. Marguerite spoke too low for Shakira to hear what was said. She didn’t need to hear to know the gist. She braced for the attack.

The older woman nodded and positioned herself behind the resistant Shakira, as Marguerite approached from the other direction to box her in. Shakira tried to spin away. The older woman moved with unexpected agility and looped an arm around her neck and jerked hard. Shakira quickly kicked backwards. Her heel smashed into the woman’s shin. Grunting, the woman reflexively loosened her grasp. Shakira used the brief reprieve to shift so she could face her attackers. The woman swung her fists wildly as they struggled, some blows connected, some Shakira blocked and parried with counter strikes.

Marguerite yelled a man’s name and then slammed into Shakira from the side. Knocked off balance and defenseless for a few seconds, the woman punched Shakira hard in the stomach. Marguerite called out again, and the man who served the king’s escort rushed through the doorway. Shakira’s sore belly ached with each exertion, but she fought. Three opponents proved too much. They wrestled her to the floor and made quick work of removing the dress and chemise.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A stag leaped from the thicket, three hundred pounds of exposed shoulder, ribs, and flank. A clear and easy bow shot for Alex. The royal hounds barked and scrambled for purchase on the soft ground and gave chase. The hunting party joined their pursuit, all except Alex, who gazed towards the eastern sky.

The clouds had grown darker as the day wore on. Rain striated the distant horizon, a faded barcode on the skyline. A storm gave him reason to go back. He needed to make amends for treating Shakira abominably the night before. She hadn’t deserved his wrath. He planned on apologizing this morning before he left but she slept so peacefully he couldn’t bring himself to wake her. He’d buy her a nice piece of jewelry here in London, a pretty bracelet or earrings. It was inadequate, but hopefully it opened the door to forgiveness.
  

"God’s teeth, Guy, where is your head? The stag made good his escape while you failed to even raise your bow."

The prince reined in his horse, halting the excited animal in front of Alex and Thor. "He was a fine one too. At least a twelve-pointer, I’d say. Gone now," he said with disgust.

"Sorry, my mind was elsewhere," Alex said. "I’m concerned about the weather. The temperature has dropped. I believe the storm," he tipped his head to the east, "is headed our way. Perhaps, we should return to the palace."

Edward looked skyward at the black clouds and off toward the distant rain. "You may have the right of it." He turned to Alex and took a pull of wine from a leather flask. "I would’ve preferred returning with a fresh kill," he said and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Alex made no further apology and the prince let the matter go. The rest of their party gathered together. "The weather conspires against us. We’ll return to the palace."

The group wheeled their mounts around and headed towards Westminster.

"Ride next to me, Guy." The prince let the rest of the party gain several strides on them before following. "The French rain is a constant plague to our troops. You know this from our time fighting at Crecy.” Edward stuck the wine into a saddle bag and continued, "No better way for a man to earn his spurs than on a victorious field of blood and mud."

"I recall the terrible damp," Alex replied, curious at the direction of the conversation.

"We’ll suffer more of the same on my campaign. Let us hope your sensitivity to the cold and wet has been banished by then."

Offended by the insinuation, Alex checked his temper and said, "If you must know, it is not the inclement weather that troubles me as worry about milady. She is a stranger, alone, in a strange place, while I am away."

"Ah, I thought there was more to your distraction. She is fine, I’m sure. What harm could befall her at the palace?"

***

Shakira wanted to rip the chemise from her body. The coarse weave of the shabby muslin rubbed her nipples raw. How many hours passed since Marguerite threw the scratchy garment at her and left? What time was it? From the gloomy grey outside, she guessed late afternoon, uncertain if the dwindling light resulted from the weather or the hour. The corners of the room were already dark.
   

She sat hunched on the floor by the tiny window, hugging her knees. The draft from the outside was a taste of freedom and she drank in what little fresh air came through.
Freedom
. She closed her eyes and pressed her nose to the gap in the boards and inhaled deeply. The air was cool now, heavy with the damp of the coming storm. She breathed deep again, but a shift in the wind brought corruption. The malodorous scent of sewage, human and animal, and all the rotted flotsam and jetsam wafted in from the nearby river. With a low grunt, she buried her nose in the fleshy crook of her elbow.

The shadow of someone’s feet appeared in the corridor outside her chamber. Keys jingled in the lock and the door creaked open. The man who’d help wrestle her to the floor stepped inside. She blinked and held her hand over her eyes as torchlight lit the room.

"The master wants you." The man jerked her up by the elbow.

She snatched her arm away and straightened so she stood tall, taller than the servant. "Don’t touch me." Her voice never wavered in spite of her consummate fear.

The man spit at her feet and grabbed her again. He dug his fingers into her upper arm, the nails biting painfully into her as he pulled her along.

One flight down he stopped and tapped on the door with a couple of cursory knocks. Without waiting for a permission to enter, he opened it, shoved her into Dankworth's chamber, then left, shutting the door.

The pungent smell of onion and mutton filled her nostrils. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled in natural response. Her last meal was dinner with the prince and Alex. Regardless of her sense’s physical reaction, she felt no hunger.

She remained just to the inside of the doorway and scanned the room for anything useable as a weapon. No food sat on the table. Dankworth must’ve finished the meal prior to her arrival and put away his eating dagger. Nothing sharp or heavy lay anywhere handy. The iron poker for the fire was the best tool that could be wielded as a weapon. Unfortunately, the hearth was closer to Dankworth than her. He’d reach it first. Still, she kept the possibility of getting her hands on the poker in the back of her mind.

"Remove your garment and come here." The candlelight cast long shadows over the bed and onto the floor. It illuminated enough of the already half undressed Dankworth to reveal his aroused state.

She didn't move. "Like a lamb to the slaughter? I don't think so." She readied for the fight of her life. She wasn’t weak. She worked out. A kick with guts behind it should put a crimp in his rape plans. All she needed was a bit of luck.

His face darkened with rage and he covered the distance between them in three strides. She flinched as he stopped within inches. He didn’t touch her, but barred the door. She cursed her hesitation as he moved to the bed, out of reach.

"I will not tell you again. Come here," he said, removing the rest of his clothing. Spittle sprayed out and for a fraction of a second hung, suspended in the candle glow, then fell.

“Come and get me.”

He’d come for her. When he did, she’d drive his nuts up to his ears. She missed one opportunity. A mistake she wouldn’t repeat.

Dankworth lunged, knocking her backward, pinning her against the wall. She'd kicked but missed the mark and connected with his thigh instead. He grabbed the front of the chemise and yanked her onto her toes. She flailed and tried to knee him in the balls, failing as sharp pain surged through her cheek and behind her eye.

She struggled to bring a hand up to ward off another strike. She saw the flash of his raised fist and ducked her face away from the blow. He was faster. This one found her mouth and spotted his knuckles with her blood. She’d suspected earlier he intended to kill her. Now she knew he would whether he raped her first or not.

She wrenched out of his grasp and swept her foot around his ankle, tripping him. He seized her arm and took her to the floor too. Savage hands tore at her hair and finding a handful, he banged her head against the hard wood. She twisted against him. The sting from a clump of hair ripped out by the roots gave her false hope she’d escaped his hold.

Instead, he gripped the tender flesh of her neck. Unable to swallow, saliva gathered in the back of her throat, choking her. She tried to breathe through her nose but couldn’t get enough air. Nothing found its way to her lungs. Her ability to differentiate colors waned. Shades of grey tinged the edges of her peripheral vision. A thousand pinpricks of light danced before her as she bucked beneath him.

His fingers tightened on her windpipe. She scratched his cheeks and clawed at his eyes. He released her throat and attempted to seize her wrists as she tried to ram the heel of her hand into his nose.

They battled until a blunt force blow dazed her. The side of her face from jaw to eye pounded from his backhand. Her left ear ached with a dull whir like the ocean’s roar through a conch shell.

Dankworth only needed a moment to completely overpower her. He attempted to straddle her, opening himself up for a split second. Shakira jammed her knee into his testicles with all the force adrenaline can produce. His eyes rolled upward until only the whites showed as he held himself, cursing and panting.

Unable to open one eye, aching, she managed to clamber up the wall, stagger to the door and lift the bar. Pulled away by her hair, she was hurled several feet. Her ribs caught the side of a table and something from the top crashed by her head as it tipped over. Dankworth spat an epithet she couldn’t understand through the muffled ringing in her ear. Then, he kicked her in the ribs and drew his foot back to kick her again.
  

She clutched her side and rolled onto her stomach. Panicked he’d kick her to death she pushed up from the floor. With her forearm tucked tight to her ribcage, she used her free arm to drag herself. The rough plank floor scraped raw spots on her knees and elbows as she crawled, desperate to be out of his reach, desperate to escape the punishing blows. Dankworth's heavy foot landed on the small of her back. She shifted her weight and twisted to the side, trying to see what he was doing.

He loomed above her, half doubled over, a string of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. He stretched to pick up the riding crop that had spilled from the table.

"No whore denies me." He ripped the chemise almost in two. "Whether you suffer me cock or my whip, it matters not to me."

The boniness of his cheeks lost their distinction. The angular outline of other facial features blurred. Through vision clouded by a fog of pain, she squinted and tipped her chin high.

"Go to hell."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Shakira drifted in and out of sleep. The cold of the floor seeped into her bones. She shivered and vaguely remembered flashes of bright light as she was dragged away. Pain induced hallucinations saw them as headlights from cars. Cars from the modern world that signaled hope this was a nightmare. Then a kernel of rationality prevailed, and she remembered they were torches.

How many times had he whipped her? A dozen? More? The leather knot at the end of the lash had stung while the tiny spike tore her skin.