Juliana Garnett (28 page)

“Would that I were riding with you on the morrow,” Guy muttered in frustration.

“I need all my knights, but only those able to ride,” Rolf replied with a faint smile. “Tarry here and heal. As I am taking every man who can still ride with me, I leave the keep in your hands.” His voice hardened slightly. “Do not fail me, Sir Guy.”

After an instant’s silence when the only sounds in the chamber were the sputtering of torches and the dog’s labored breathing, Guy said clearly, “I will die ere I fail you or your lady, milord.”

“Should you fail me, you may wish for death long before it comes,” Rolf said slowly, and saw that Guy understood.

I
t was raining. Miserable, Annice huddled in her hooded cloak and prayed for deliverance, as she had done since being taken from Dragonwyck. The first day had been a blur of fear and fury, hours of hard riding, furtive paths, and a long night spent under a hayrick. At first light the men had split up into different routes.

Annice despaired. Rolf would never know which path to follow, which group of men-at-arms had her. And she would soon be at Stoneham, and far removed from his reach. How Thurston must have cackled with glee while planning this! ’Twas no wonder he had agreed so mildly to the wedding. He’d known she would not be at Dragonwyck for long. Her only prayer was that the king did not know of his intention and would disapprove. John could force him to release her.

Closing her eyes, Annice clung to the high bow of her saddle. Her horse was being led by a mailed soldier at a swift pace over the muddy track. Rain had swollen streams to overflow banks, and on two occasions they’d been forced to ford dangerously swift currents. The steady beat of rain
would obliterate any tracks, making it virtually impossible for Rolf to follow.

If, indeed, he even attempted pursuit.

Would he? Their marriage vows had been spoken, the documents signed before witnesses, and the union consummated. Her dower lands were now in Rolf’s possession. It would be easy enough for him to relinquish his wife and still retain control of her lands. The king’s agent would validate their wedding. God’s grace, the vows had been spoken in front of vassals and villeins alike. It could not be disputed, and she had not disavowed him. Yea, ’twas legal and binding, and she caught as neatly as a hare in a trap.

Grabbing at the saddlebow as the horse slid into a muddy rut, Annice struggled to keep her balance. Rain slashed down in an increasing tide, and she glared at the man leading her horse.

“Does your leader intend that we drown ere we reach our destination?” she snapped, and the soldier flicked her a sodden glance.

“When we halt, ask him yourself,” was his sullen reply. ’Twas plain he was no more pleased by the weather and arduous pace than she. His helm was wet with rain, huge drops trickling down the noseguard to drip into his beard. The tunic he wore over his mail was drenched. Every time his horse shook its head, rain flew out in all directions, spraying the soldier. None of the others seemed to be faring any better.

Trees crowded close to the roadside, leaves dripping with rain. Branches were slick and wet, and the steady sound of driving rain spattering on ground and leaves grew louder. It threatened to be a torrential downpour. Thunder rumbled and growled, a low, ominous accompaniment to a wretched day. Horses trembled, some snorting nervously.

Finally the leader of the small group called a halt. A thick row of tall hedges formed a shelter of sorts, scratchy and dark, but at least providing some respite from the rain. Staggered at intervals, they huddled beneath sheltering branches to wait out the worst of the storm.

The sharp scent of wet horsehide, wool, and earth surrounded them, mingling with the brisk fragrance of hawthorn.
Shiny dark-green leaves with jagged edges like teeth trembled in the wind. Thorns scraped over her arm, snagging the cloth of her cloak when Annice pulled it closer around her. Tiny flowers the color of a blush clustered on the branches, the new buds shuddering under the steady beat of rain.

Breaking apart a crust of bread, the soldier leading her horse held it out wordlessly to Annice. She took it. There might be no more food offered until they halted at dark.

“God’s mercy,” she murmured, and he nodded shortly. The bread was damp and stale but filled her rumbling stomach. She chewed slowly to make it last. After several minutes, when it seemed as if the rain would continue, she glanced at her guard. Still chewing, he stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the muddy mire of the road.

“Are we near our destination?” she asked without any real hope he would reply.

Leather creaked as he shifted position in his saddle. “We do not travel straightly,” he answered. “We go a roundabout way.”

“To discourage pursuit, I presume,” she observed, and the guard nodded.

“Aye,” he said. “ ’Twould not be safe to risk the Dragon’s wrath.”

Annice stared at him. “Do you think you have not already done so? Holy Mary, but when le Draca discovers us, you may well wish that you had not been unwise enough to join this doomed band, Sir Fool!”

The soldier turned his head to glare at her. “You may jape, my fine lady, but ’tis not I who am a hostage. Does it matter so muchly to you which man be your master? Truly, you are as much a pawn as any serf of my acquaintance.”

There was too much truth in his statement to deny, and Annice shrugged. “Mayhap, but you are a free man. You have leave to choose the manner of your life—and your death. It seems that you have done both already.”

For a moment there was only the sound of rain, restless horses, and the murmur of the other men under the trees. Then the guard said harshly, “My lot in life was chosen at my birth. I but fulfill my destiny, as have scores of other
men born free in principle but bound by poverty My father was a soldier, and his father before him, back to the time of William the First. ’Tis all we know.”

Annice was silent. This nameless soldier embodied most of England. All were caught up in the steel links of destiny, it seemed, save for those strong and ruthless enough to break the chains that bound them, to embark on new lives. She counted herself among the former. She, too, was caught in a web she could not escape. Her circumstances might differ, her prison be made of silk and velvet instead of mud and wattle, but ’twas a prison nonetheless. Rules were strict, the bars invisible, and stronger for all that they could not be seen. Even serfs enjoyed more freedom than she.

If Rolf came for her, would her life be any different from before? Nay, she would still be bound by social strictures, her life at the whim of another. Not just her husband, but her king held her pinioned.

Hail began to fall. Pea-sized pellets bounced in the rutted road and off tree branches, occasionally penetrating the dense hedges to pelt those huddled beneath. Annice watched as hailstones cluttered the wagon ruts cut deep into the road, some disappearing in small mud puddles, others bouncing from the ruts’ edges into hummocks of grass.

A horse blew nervously, and one of the soldiers coughed. Her guard sat still and quiet, face stony in the gloom of hawthorn branches. For several moments the hail crashed down in a noisy rattle that shredded leaves and pinged against metal helmets. Then it quit as suddenly as it had begun, leaving hailstones like bits of marble strewn across road and grass. Clouds blew past in a race against the wind, and sunlight peeked through in erratic patches. The tiny stones began to melt, reflecting light in icy sparkles.

They rode out from under the trees and into the road again, hooves sliding and squelching in mud and sodden leaves. Annice curled her fingers around the high bow of her saddle and tried to pray. No words would come; only the overwhelming press of hope filled her mind and soul.

The road curved ahead, disappearing into a shadowed line of trees. Light shone in silvery ribbons of water filling the ruts. Across a vale of jeweled green, a rainbow arched in
iridescent color. ’Twas said to be God’s promise to the world that he would not destroy it with flood again. Annice’s father had once jested that it left Him with a vast array of disasters to ruin the world. There were those men who garbed themselves in robes of fustian and intoned the End was at hand, but they were generally considered to be heretics.

Sometimes she wondered if they meant ’twas each person’s own world that was jeopardized by disaster. If so, hers was in grave danger now of being destroyed.

As they passed into the trees again, leaves blotted out the sunlight. The road was not so muddy there, as branches laced overhead to form a latticed roof of leaves. All was hushed, soft sound seeming to echo from each side of the densely wooded road.

Her horse’s pace quickened suddenly, and its ears pricked forward. Annice turned to see that her guard had straightened in his saddle and put one hand upon the hilt of his sword. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs. The six men that accompanied them had already drawn their weapons in a rasping slide of steel. Her hand went to her waist before she remembered that her dagger had been taken from her.

Before she could ask what was afoot, a deep-throated bellow rang from just ahead. Startled, she thumped her heels against her mount’s sides even as her guard was jerking on the lead rope. It had the effect of sending her horse plunging forward in a series of bucking motions that almost unseated her.

Then everything became chaotic, with shouts and bellows and the clang of swords. Annice clung to the high saddle bow with both hands while her guard managed to shorten her plunging mount’s rope so that it could not rear. After a few more energetic hops, the horse settled into a brisk trot.

The hood of Annice’s cloak jostled lower over her head, half blinding her as they galloped along the narrow dirt track. She had vague glimpses of her guard and a blur of trees and wet earth. Glancing back at her, the man growled a command to hold tightly. His mouth set in a taut line, and chinks of sunlight glittered on his helm and sword.

“You are to stay close to me, milady, no matter what happens,” he ordered tersely. “I will let no harm come to you.”

“Are they outlaws?” she gasped out, clawing at the edges of her hood with one hand.

Outlaws were the scourge of the forests, hiding in thick trees to wait for their victims. They didn’t just rob travelers, they slew them so that there would be no witnesses against them. Those outlaws who were caught were quickly hanged, sometimes after having limbs and eyes removed, but it did not seem to be much of a deterrent.

Annice knew that ’twas unlikely outlaws would attack an armed band of obvious soldiers. Even in a caravan it was unlikely that she would be slain. Her ermine-lined cloak and elegant garments would convince any outlaw to hold her for ransom. Yea, her fate would be the same, whether she was taken by outlaws or carried safely to Thurston of Seabrook. It was not as comforting a thought as it might have been. Ever had she been a pawn, ever would she be one, a source of profit for men.

Her guard increased his speed. The others were left far behind. Chunks of mud flew from their horses’ hooves, spattering the dragging hem of her cloak and gown with streaks of brown. Sounds of fighting still echoed behind them. The clang of swords and shouts were distant now, muffled by trees and the labored pace of their mounts. Annice leaned forward to duck a low-hanging branch, looking up as she did. Shadows dappled the ground, light flickering over the road and a dark form in the midst of it. Then a bright wash of sunlight broke through the clouds and leaves overhead, illuminating the form.

Catching her breath, she barely managed to choke back a scream at the apparition blocking the middle of the road. Huge and fearsome, with smoke seeming to coil all around it, a glittering beast that shimmered green and gold and black barred their progress. Silhouetted against ghostly light, it appeared to be aflame. For a moment her heart stood still, and she heard her guard cry out a prayer for mercy.

Annice felt faint. Holy Mary and Joseph! A dragon—all smoke and hellfire, giving a loud roar of rage to make the
trees shake. In the deep gloom of shadow and misty sunlight, it pranced forward. No clumsy lurch of scaled beast this, but a graceful turn of legs and body.

Then she realized that it was a destrier bearing a rider in full armor. The smoke was only hazy streams of sunlight filtering through moisture-laden air, eerily lighting the knight’s colors and sending up misty vapors from the ground. Her guard had checked his horse’s pace with a sharp tug on the reins. The animal reared back on its haunches, front hooves flailing, and Annice’s horse careened to the side to barely miss a collision.

She almost slid off but managed to cling to the saddle, heart pounding with fear. Her breath came in short pants. Through the tangle of her loose hair and disheveled hood, she saw the knight ride close and challenge her guard. Though the voice was muffled by the loud rush of blood in her ears, she knew him.

“Rolf,” she breathed softly. Her guard had lifted his weapon and backed his horse next to hers, intent upon remaining between them.