Passion's Exile (29 page)

She took three great steps, then vaulted up, seizing the reins with one hand, the saddle with the other.

She almost made it.

But these were seasoned soldiers.

Before she could swing her leg up over the saddle, she was dragged down by the back of her skirts. She tried to kick her assailant, but he yanked her hard, and she lost her grip on the saddle. Even then, she would have fled afoot, but he tripped her, and she fell headlong to the ground. Behind her, she heard three swords unsheathe. And knew she was doomed.

She shuddered as cold steel pressed at the back of her neck, and prayed for quick death.

“Argh! My ballocks!” one man whimpered. “The she-devil’s ruined me.”

Her captor planted a knee in her back and wrenched her head back by the hair. She winced in pain.

“I could snap your neck,” he spat, “ye daughter o’ Satan.”

He hauled her up instead by her hair, making her eyes sting with tears, and stood her up before him, her neck gripped in his hand. His eye was already beginning to blacken from her fist, and she took some satisfaction in that. But there was no mercy in his dire gaze.

“Know this, wench,” he growled. “Sir Gawter’s not a patient man. He’ll likely reward us for tamin’ ye. And we’d gladly break ye just for the sport of it.”

His words sent a chill through her bones, but she refused to cower. He shook her once by the throat, then let her go.

The man who was bent double in agony lumbered up then, a watery-eyed sneer marking his pallid face. So quickly that she couldn’t dodge it, he swung around with his mailed hand and split open her cheek. Pain burst across her face as she was knocked back against the horse, dazed.

“Ye stupid fool!” the first man shouted. “Not where it’ll show!” Then he drew back his fist and gave her a brutal punch in the stomach.

She caved forward, wheezing for breath, shaking in shock, hurting so much she prayed for sweet unconsciousness.

Blade fell back into his mercenary habits with the ease of a knight donning a well-worn gauntlet. Though the distraction of going on a pilgrimage had been an interesting break, his mood at present was more suited to the solitude of the hunt.

His quarry wasn’t difficult to track. The riders took no special care to hide their passage. One of their mounts had a worn shoe and thus, a distinctive print. But they’d left hours before him and likely traveled in haste. They might be difficult to catch.

Why they fled west, he didn’t know. The assassins had said they were going east to St. Andrews. The further he pursued the horsemen, the more he wondered if Wilham might have been right about Rose’s disappearance being diversionary.

Still, it didn’t deter him from his course. He had a crime to uncover. There was wrong to be righted.

In a secret corner of his mind, he recognized the assassination was the least of his reasons for coming after Rose. She’d betrayed him, and if there was anything he stood for, anything for which he’d scour the ends of the earth, ‘twas justice.

It took all of one day and most of another, hard riding and with nothing but stale bread and cheese for sustenance. But when he finally caught up with the riders at twilight of the second day, creeping up on their camp with the stealth of a seasoned hunter, all his plans for righteous retribution took an unplanned turn.

From his vantage point in the shadows of the trees, he spied them—four men in matching red cote-hardies, cooking their supper over a blazing fire.

He was surprised to discover they were not miscreants, but noble knights. Usually, men who wore the colors of a lordly house carried themselves with a lofty bearing. Rarely did they sleep on the ground when there was an inn nearby, and only during a siege did they move about so secretly.

But what amazed him more was that Rose wasn’t among them.

His first thought was that she hadn’t gone with them after all, that she might have refused to leave with her lover, that she’d bid the man adieu at the well and chosen to remain with the pilgrims…with Blade. But he cast that sentimental thought aside like an over-sugared sweetmeat.

The other possibility shook him to his foundations. Maybe they’d…done something…to Rose and disposed of her. Maybe she was…

He dared not even utter the word in his mind. For all of his vengeful thoughts, there was a part of him—a weak, vulnerable piece of his heart—that still clung tenaciously to the hope that he was wrong about Rose. And that part of him would languish forever if anything had happened to her.

Thus, with a conflict so twisted it confounded his brain, he prayed that Rose was still alive…so that he might wring her treasonous neck.

The men laughed as they turned a brace of spitted rabbits over the fire. One of them left to piss against a tree, and in that dark gap left by his absence, Blade spotted Rose.

She sat beyond the fire, tethered to a fat oak. Her arms were bound before her, and she was gagged. Her hair was snarled, her torn surcoat hung off one shoulder, and her cheek bore a bloody bruise.

Wilham had been right. Rose
was
innocent. These brutes had abducted her. And they’d…hurt her.

Shame, then fury, rose so quickly in him that his blood surged through his veins like molten steel. Without thought, without stealth, purely on warrior instincts, he drew his sword, crashing forward through the trees with a mighty roar in his throat and fire behind his eyes, wielding death.

Rose saw the men scatter, and her mind flashed back to that time long ago—to that other roar, when all the other children had been afraid, and Rose had held her ground.

Whatever wild animal approached, it couldn’t be as vicious as her captors. They’d already bloodied her cheek, bruised her ribs, and half-starved her. So while Gawter’s men dispersed in a spate of panicked oaths, she waited numbly for death to come.

When she saw who ‘twas, when she beheld Blade charging into the clearing like an enraged beast, all of the pent-up fear she thought she’d subdued, all the despair locked deep within her breast escaped on a great sob of relief.

He’d come for her. Blade had come to her rescue.

His hands were free of his chains now, and he brandished a sword as if ‘twere an extension of his arm. He planted his feet wide before the fire. His chest was heaving, and his firelit face was a flickering mask of grim, controlled fury. ‘Twas a face to set even her courageous heart racing in terror. No wonder the men had fled.

“Come face me, ye cowards!” he bellowed.

‘Twas only when they came for him that she remembered he was one man against four. Her heart lurched. Sweet Mary! He was going to get himself killed.

She had to help him. Squirming violently against her bonds, she screamed behind the gag, hoping to garner his attention, hoping to get him to cut her free. But all that came out was a weak squeal.

He paid her no heed. Instead, he strode forward, swinging his broadsword in one hand with almost insolent grace.

“Come pay for your dishonor,” he snarled toward the men.

She thrashed again, trying to convince Blade to loose her, but he didn’t seem to understand.

“Turn away, lass,” he called to her. “‘Twill not be a bonnie sight.”

Of course, nothing would convince her to look away now. ‘Twas like asking her not to think of purple thistles. Her gaze was drawn to him with almost magnetic force.

And then the battle began.

She’d trusted the men to fight honorably. After all, though they’d been rough with her, they were still noble knights. Surely they battled under some code of chivalry.

Her expectations were dashed when all four attacked Blade at once.

But to her amazement, in a single smooth movement, Blade knocked aside one weapon with his own, skewered a second man in the shoulder, then spun to kick the third blade away and swung his sword around to engage the last assailant.

Never had she seen such dexterity, such daring, such strength. Sir Ian Campbell had been right. Blade
was
a peerless fighter.

Sparks flew from the flashing blades as the two knights clashed once, twice, thrice. The wounded man was slow to recover, but the other two regained their stances and thrust toward Blade again. One weapon he deflected. The second swipe he ducked beneath. The third man returned with a slash that sliced into Blade’s doublet at the ribs, but went no deeper.

The wounded man rushed at him, and before Rose could even finish gasping, Blade dove for his legs, bowling him over. Blade instantly rolled to his feet to face the others.

They circled nervously, and Blade, impatient for their attack, stepped upon the back of the groaning knight, then over him, lunging toward the man on the right. Steel met steel, and the grating seemed to echo the tense discord of Rose’s nerves.

Blade kicked out again to deflect the swipe of the man on the left, but the man in the middle used the opportunity to stab forward. Rose gasped as the blade appeared to pierce Blade’s body. But he’d dodged the blow. The sword had slipped under his arm.

Blade arced his free hand over his opponent’s sword arm, and jerked his arm back, pulling the man forward by his captive hand until he collided into Blade’s shoulder.

The impact forced the man to drop his sword, and Rose—itching to rush forward and retrieve the weapon—struggled in vain against her bonds.

Blade then used the man as a shield. Just as the attacker with the injured shoulder thrust his sword forward, Blade shoved his captive into its path. The man moaned as his fellow’s blade sank into his belly. His assailant spat out a string of oaths at his unfortunate mistake.

Rose watched in horror as the blade was pulled free. The man clutched at his stomach, blood seeping between his fingers, his face limned with astonishment and pain just before he fell senseless to the ground. She shuddered.

But Blade was already engrossed in another battle, caught between two of the remaining attackers. They prepared to swing around simultaneously from opposite sides, and Rose squeezed her eyes shut, sure they would cut him in half.

When she dared peek an instant later, Blade had dropped his sword and leapt up, clinging to an oak branch overhead. He pulled up his legs just as the swords whistled past beneath him.

Rose buckled in relief until she realized that Blade had just disarmed himself. He hung like a haunch of beef, waiting to be butchered. What would he do now? Damn his eyes! If only he’d freed her…

The three remaining knights surrounded their quarry, their eyes gleaming with vengeful glee. Rose couldn’t bear to watch. But she couldn’t bear not to. So she squinted her eyes, hoping to filter out the worst of what was to come through her eyelashes.

One attacker, the one who’d killed his fellow, couldn’t wait for his revenge. He slashed toward Blade. Blade swayed back out of the way. While the man recovered, Blade swung forward again, hoisting his body up and over till he crouched atop the branch, out of their reach.

Rose wanted to shout for joy.

But the tree proved more prison than haven. He had no way down and no weapon. What acrobatics could he possibly employ now? Gawter’s men had only to wait for him to descend.

They’d obviously come to the same conclusion, for they began to chuckle at his predicament. Even Blade’s expression of righteous wrath took on a doubtful cast.

Then an ominous creak sounded, and the limb began to sag. Rose held her breath while Blade sank closer and closer to the threatening swords. With a sudden crack, the branch gave way, and Blade tumbled to the ground with a great crash and a deep thud.

To his good fortune, the limb felled the men below as well. In the confusion, Blade managed to move out of their range. But he was also out of reach of his sword.

Rose sobbed in frustration. She didn’t know how much more of this anxiety she could endure, violently rocked between hope and despair.

Within moments, Gawter’s men tossed aside the broken limb, staggered to their feet, and lumbered toward him again.

Blade looked about urgently, seeking a weapon—anything—to defend himself. He picked up a long branch, testing its strength by striking it against his palm, but the thing broke off. The attackers drew closer, their faces smug, and Blade retreated toward the fire, scanning the ground.

When he’d backed as far as he could go, when flames appeared to lick at the back of his legs, the men lunged at him as one, and Rose winced, sure Blade would fall into the fire and be consumed.

But he turned and dove over the leaping flames, rolling in the dirt on the other side. When he came up, he was wielding a flaming brand.

Armed now, Blade thrust the log before him, driving his assailants back. They deflected him as best they could with their swords, but fire was a daunting enemy. Finally, one of the men, losing patience, grabbed the brand in his mailed hand, planning to disarm Blade by tossing the thing aside before it could do damage. But as he flung it away, the flames leaped onto his cote-hardie faster than a beggar falling on a dropped coin. He slapped at the fire, cursing as he tried to extinguish it, but it only intensified with his flapping.

To Rose’s horror, the man closest to him, the one who had punched her so mercilessly in the stomach, began to laugh as if he thought his fellow’s suffering a fitting end for his poor judgment.

Soon the man was shrieking in panic, squirming as the hungry fire fed on his garments and then his flesh. But his companions did nothing to ease his agony, and soon the wretch was beyond help. Sickened by the sight, Rose shut her eyes tightly. When the man began to scream, she wished she could close her ears as well.

Abruptly, the screaming stopped, and she opened her eyes again. But ‘twasn’t Gawter’s knights who had put an end to the man’s suffering. ‘Twas Blade. He’d seized the man’s fallen sword and delivered the blow of mercy. The fire consumed what remained of the man’s dead body while his head burned a few yards away.

And now Blade was armed. He advanced on the two remaining knights, his mouth twisted in revulsion. He swept the bloody sword down twice, tracing a violent X in the air.