Juliana Garnett (5 page)

His men knew what to do and had fanned out in two flanks. One would wait until the riders had passed to come in behind, attacking at the same moment that the group would be assaulted from the front. The element of surprise should add greatly to their advantage, and Rolf hoped for a swiftly executed maneuver that would gain him his son. The road was narrow at the spot he had chosen for the attack; thick woods lined the route, which would inhibit Seabrook’s men in their retaliation.

Curbing his impatience, he waited in a copse for the riders to come abreast. They were hidden from view again by a bend in the road, but he could hear feminine laughter and the light chatter of children above the sound of hooves striking the dry roadbed. As they came into sight around a shadowed curve, he gave the signal to the forward flank.

Bursting from the woods onto the road, Rolf’s men cut down the first two of Seabrook’s soldiers. Women screamed shrilly, almost indistinguishable from the high-pitched squeals of startled horses. Swords clanged and men cursed, and there was the heavy thud of clashing man and beast.

Rolf forged into the midst of the group and saw Justin struggling to keep his seat. His pony reared and plunged, eyes wild with fright. For the moment he was unprotected. Leaning forward, Rolf scooped the boy from his saddle. He was momentarily startled by Justin’s fierce resistance until he realized that the boy would not know him with a noseguard and helmet covering most of his face.

“Be still,” he said as he struggled to hold the frantically thrashing child. “ ’Tis your father who holds you.”

Justin’s struggles ceased, and he glanced up at Rolf with an anxious frown. There was no time to reassure him; the fight had escalated with the charge of the rear flank. Wheeling
his destrier around, Rolf forced his way through the combatants to where Edmund awaited him. He thrust the boy into the hold of his master-at-arms with a terse command to ride hard.

“Get him to safety at all costs,” he added, and reined his mount around to reenter the fray. He must occupy the knights until Edmund had time enough to escape with Justin. His sword flashed in glittering arcs. There was little time to think; his body acted of its own accord. Battle was an accustomed habit, the furious thrust and parry of weapons familiar to a man who had spent over half his life at it.

Efforts were made to avoid the women and other children caught in the fight. Seabrook’s men-at-arms had managed to form a tight circle around them as a protective barrier. Once Edmund had been able to escape with Justin, Rolf would call back his men at the earliest possible moment for retreat. He had no desire to risk the lives of women and children once his aim had been accomplished. Recovering Justin would be triumph and vengeance enough.

Deflecting a blade with his shield, Rolf kneed his huge destrier forward, bringing his sword up and around in a wicked slice. It bit deeply into his assailant. He heard a hoarse cry and glimpsed a fallen opponent as he pressed on. A brief assessment of the situation was reassuring. Of the dozen mounted soldiers sent out from Stoneham, only half remained.

Rolf was about to give the signal for retreat, when one of his men struck down a soldier guarding the women and children. Spurring forward with an angry shout, Rolf saw the wounded man fall, still holding on to his mount’s reins. The panic-stricken beast reared, hooves thrashing wildly as it toppled over backward into the midst of the women and children. Another scream rent the air.

In a blur of flashing hooves and flailing bodies, another horse and rider went down. It was Lady Annice; her bright hair was unmistakable. Rolf saw her fall from her horse and scramble to her feet, but the surge of frantic horses raged around her in an overwhelming tide, and he lost sight of her. Even as he put spurs to his horse, he knew he was taking a great risk to help an enemy. Yet none of her own
seemed inclined to assist her as they battled Rolf’s seasoned knights.

He urged his mount closer. Despite the chaotic blend of churning horses, flashing blades, and terrified, screaming women, he managed to reach Lady Annice. She looked up, eyes registering fright and trust at the same time, and held out her hand. At that moment another horse lurched sideways and reared. A glancing blow from a hoof struck her in the head, and she collapsed just as Rolf reached for her. He swore. Bending from his saddle, he managed to scoop her up before she was trampled. She hung limp and unconscious, bumping against his horse with every movement. Rolf’s mail and weapons combined with this new burden put him off balance. Sweating from the effort, he did his best to recover. Lady Annice was a heavy weight on his arm; worse, it was his sword arm, which left him vulnerable to attack. Only his shield arm was free. He had to rid himself of her at the first opportunity, or risk all.

Wheeling his great destrier out of the battle, Rolf looked up for a safe spot to place her. Then he heard a high, thin cry that jerked him around.

“Father!”

His blood chilled. Far down the road Edmund de Molay was waging a desperate struggle. One of Seabrook’s knights had engaged him in a fierce battle for Justin. Even as he spurred his mount forward, Rolf saw that he was too late.

A sword lifted high, then sliced down into the curve of Edmund’s neck and shoulder. As Edmund fell from the saddle, the earl’s man plucked Justin from his dying grasp.

Not to be easily vanquished, Justin kicked out, crying again, “Father!”

The knight gave the boy a quick cuff to quiet him and spurred his horse through an opening in the thinning line of trees and into a hard canter across a meadow. Rolf glanced at Lady Annice draped over his arm and made a quick decision. He barely reined in to drop her onto a hillock of grass at the roadside, then continued his pursuit.

Hooves thundered as he pursued them, tearing up chunks of thick grass from the earth and sending it skyward. He could feel his destrier’s muscles strain as he stretched out
across the broad meadow in pursuit, and Rolf urged him faster. But Seabrook’s man rode as if the devil were after him. As he topped a knoll thick with new green grass, Rolf saw reinforcements riding out from Stoneham. Apparently, one of the men had managed to sound an alarm.

Unwilling to yield even in the face of such great force, Rolf urged his destrier to a greater pace. Sunlight skittered along the stained blade of his drawn sword as he lifted it high. If he could come within a sword’s length of man or beast, the fight would be won. All he needed was the slimmest of chances.…

Bellowing his war cry, Rolf saw the knight glance back over his shoulder, a look of desperation in his eyes. He must know that he had to reach the reinforcements to gain safety, and that the Dragon was drawing much too close. Could he make it in time? Rolf put spurs to Wulfsige, just as desperate to apprehend the knight and retrieve his son.

But good fortune was on Seabrook’s side this day, for even as the huge destrier lunged forward with greater speed, a contingent of men-at-arms crested a grassy knoll within a wagon span of their comrade. Now, instead of one knight, there were a half dozen or more. A fight would only endanger Justin, not guarantee success.

“God’s teeth,” Rolf swore softly, fighting despair as he was forced to rein his mount to a halt. He paused for only an instant as his destrier tossed his head and snorted, prancing restlessly in the grass. Sunlight glinted from armor and Justin’s fair head. Rolf caught a glimpse of the boy’s frightened face peering over his captor’s shoulder; then they disappeared down the side of the crest.

Defeat was bitter in his throat. All for nothing. Now Thurston would be doubly on his guard, and there would be little chance for another attempt. Wheeling around, Rolf rode back the way he had come with all haste. By now the battle had ended. The dead lay strewn on the ground, and the road was empty. Wounded were attempting to stagger to their feet, clutching bloody arms and legs. The faint thunder of approaching enemy troops could be heard in the distance. He looked down at one of his men.

“We tried, my lord.” It was Guy FitzHugh, panting for
breath and bloodied. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his head. Unhorsed, he stood in the middle of the road and gestured toward a crumpled form. “Edmund de Molay is dead.”

“Aye.” Rolf’s throat was tight. “Gather the wounded. We will have to leave our dead for now.” At Guy FitzHugh’s startled glance, he added tersely, “Reinforcements approach. Did they escape with all the women and children?”

Sir Guy nodded. “Aye. But for that one.” He pointed, and Rolf turned to look.

Lady Annice still lay in a heap of skirts on the tussock where he’d left her. Rage burned hot and bright. If not for coming to the aid of the lady, he would have seen Edmund struggling with the soldier. If not for the lady Annice, Edmund might still be alive—and he would have his son with him.

Rolf looked back at Guy FitzHugh. “Bring her,” he commanded harshly. “P’raps Seabrook will be interested in an exchange of hostages.”

I
t was the constant motion that jarred her most. Annice shut her eyes to stem the throbbing in her skull. Pain had settled in hot, piercing waves behind her eyes, and the left side of her head was tender to the touch. But discomfort was the least of her worries.

Opening her eyes, she stared ahead at the straight back of Rolf le Draca. He rode at the head of his men, setting a hard pace that was grueling. Since she had awakened, held in front of a mail-clad knight smelling of blood and sweat, apprehension had gripped her more than the aching throb in her head.

She had realized at once what must have happened while she had lain unconscious. It did not take a great intellect to discern that she was prisoner. The band of mailed knights had struck their colors so as to go unrecognized, and carried no banner. To the casual eye they could well appear as outlaws. And she one of them.

Never having traveled in any manner but in a litter for a long journey, and atop a dainty palfrey for sport, Annice
found the hard gallop of the destrier painful. She gasped out a plea for respite, and the knight who held her in front of him called out to his lord.

Reining his mount, le Draca turned back to them, his gaze hard beneath the helm and noseguard. A curve of sunlight streamed through the heavy branches overhead, slipping over his face. “Yea, Sir Guy? Is there aught amiss?”

“Nay, lord, but that the lady must rest.”

Piercing her with a cold gaze from eyes an icy green, le Draca swiftly banished her first impression of him as a gentle knight caught in a difficult situation. “There is no time for female frailties. We ride hard.”

“Then leave me here,” she got out, caught between outrage and throbbing pain, “for I cannot continue.”

“You will remain with me until I have decided your fate, my lady,” he snapped. “Pray God that your overlord feels sufficiently moved to barter for your life.”

“And if he does not?” she snapped back.

He stared at her while his lathered destrier tossed its head in a spray of foam and jangle of bridle. “Then you shall rue the day you made the unwise decision to seek harbor with him.”

Annice lapsed into silence. This was the Dragon of ballad and nightmare, the hard-faced man whose savagery was legend.

“My lord,” Sir Guy began, but le Draca had already wheeled his great horse around, leaving her more shaken than she would have liked to admit. No words were exchanged as the knight nudged his mount forward again.

Nothing in her life had truly prepared her for this sort of circumstance. Leaving the shelter of her girlhood home had been simple, as she had done so at an early age, receiving her training in wifely arts in the castle of Walter de Montmorency. When she’d married, war often raged and though she was accustomed to her husband’s absences, she had never been in immediate danger.

Once, at Montmorency, she had endured a siege by a warring vassal, but it had been short, and she had not been inconvenienced in any way but the tending of the wounded. This was vastly different and terrifying. Not even Luc d’Arcy’s
frequent rages could compare to the icy ferocity of Rolf le Draca.

The day became an unending blur of jarring motion and thick silence broken only by the changing thud of hooves from hard roadbed to leaf-cushioned forest floor. There was a curious crackle of dried leaves and twigs snapping, the labored breathing of the horses, and the clink and clank of harness and armor. Trees crowded close around them at times, tangled brush snaking across narrow paths. The woods were dark and hushed, huge oaks rising like specters in the gloomy shadows, seeming to peer out with faces older than time in the twisted trunks and branches.

Shuddering, the lady clasped her arms around her body as if chilled. A faint tremor shook her limbs.

“Are you cold, my lady?” Sir Guy asked close to her ear, not daring to speak loudly enough to alert Rolf. He could feel the lady’s quivering even beneath his mail, and worried.

She shook her head, but that action must have brought stabbing pain, for she gave a soft cry. Immediately Guy reined in his mount. The horse’s sides heaved with strain and exhaustion, and the lady’s skirts were damp from the lathered hide. Steam rose, thick with the pungent smell of horse. Shifting position slightly, the lady glanced over her shoulder at him.