Sharon Schulze (4 page)

T
he bandits met on the trail in late afternoon. Their leader, Ralph, sat atop the knight’s stallion, a fine embroidered tunic pulled over his filthy, ragged shirt and leggings. The remaining garments in the knight’s pack tempted him mightily. Soft, bright-colored wools and silks, of a quality he’d never seen even in those far-off years when he’d been a tailor’s apprentice.

But the take belonged to them all, and though nominally the leader of this ever shrinking band of outlaws, Ralph knew he couldn’t bedeck himself in the finery unless he wanted a revolt on his hands. And he’d no intention of losing his neck over a shirt and a pair of hose.

“’Tis a fine day, lads, a fine day indeed,” he said, the three remaining fingers of his right hand caressing the jeweled sword laid across his lap. What a pity he couldn’t wield the weapon, but ’twas too big for his maimed grip. Ah, well, no use crying over what he couldn’t change. “We’ve ne’er taken such a prize as this.”

“Aye, ’tis fine for you, Ralph,” Ned piped up, shifting his gaunt frame atop an equally scrawny palfrey. “Look at all you’ve got.”

“What are you worried about?” Ralph asked. “Everyone’ll
get his share, same as always. ’Tis good pickings, the best we’ve seen in a long time. And now there’s fewer of us, there’s more to go around. Once we collect the rest of it, we’ll go see his high-and-mighty lordship and get paid what’s owed us.” Tugging on the reins and kicking mightily at the stallion’s ribs with his soft-soled shoes, Ralph urged the horse into motion and led the way to the clearing.

Confusion reigned as they burst into the meadow. Not one of them had ever handled a mount with any spirit—indeed, some could scarce ride at all, a fact that had already cost the lives of two of their band. Fortunately the horses, foam-flecked and blown, had passed from rebellion to exhaustion. Even so, Ralph and his men had learned to be more cautious now.

“Quiet,” Ralph bellowed. “Come, let’s be about our business and be on our way. I’m frozen to the marrow.”

Ned hopped down from the saddle and ran across the clearing. “By Christ’s balls, they’re gone,” he cried as he darted from one spot to another. “Look, you, the knight and the wench both. The bastard took the hauberk, too.” He bent to examine two of their fallen comrades who lay in a pool of blood. “Even the damned dog is gone,” he said, his squeaky voice rising higher still.

He stopped beside the dead guards, nudging one body with his foot, then kicking it. “Nothin’. We already took what they had.” He turned to the others, standing silent now in the middle of the clearing. “Weren’t much, neither. But I wanted that hauberk.”

“Would’ve been too big fer ye anyway, Ned. Got no more meat on ye than a chicken,” Alf said. He staggered about as though carrying a great weight on his shoulders. “Can’t ye just see it, lads?” Everyone laughed but Ned. “You wouldn’t’ve been able to move.”

“Someone else took them while we were gone. Robbed us, they did,” Ned said. He turned to Ralph. “How’re we goin’ to get paid without the wench?”

Ralph ignored Ned’s whining and walked around the meadow, stooping every so often to examine the ground. “Someone rode out—one horse,” he told them. “’Twas that rack o’ bones you ’ad, Ned, what looked like you. I’d recognize that track anywhere. No one took ’em.” He shook his head, laughing at Ned’s ire. Likely no one but himself would see the humor in robbing a thief. “Mayhap that knight carted the woman and dog away to bury them. I hear tell the nobles are odd that way, always doin’ things the way the priests tell ’em.”

Ned looked up at the darkening sky. “Ye mean we have ta go after him? We can’t track him in the dark,” he added. “I don’t want ta tangle wi’ him again, not over a bloody corpse. Took all of us ta nab him before, and there ain’t so many of us now.”

The others greeted Ned’s words with a chorus of agreement. Ralph shook his head and grabbed Ned by the front of his tunic. “What are you, a mouse? He’s naught but a man, same as us.” He tossed Ned to the soggy turf and eyed the others. “If I say you go after him, you will. D’ye understand?” He gave the nearest man a shove. “But it so happens we won’t. We weren’t hired to kill him, so there’s no sense bothering with him. He can’t get far anyway—his head’s likely cracked like an egg.”

He pulled a fine dagger from his belt and began cleaning his nails with it. “Besides, the wench was dead. We all saw her.” The men nodded. “So we tell his lordship she’s dead. He couldn’t expect us to stroll into his keep with her body, now, could he?”

“What if he don’t believe us?”

Ralph shrugged. “We tell him to come see for hisself.
Of course, it ain’t like to be a pretty sight once the wolves get to her, eh, lads?” He snorted. “He won’t bestir himself. Wants to keep his hands clean—’tis why he hired us. Can’t have it said he murdered his kin, after all.”

“But what if he wants proof, Ralph?”

“Christ, Ned, can’t you do anything but complain? Keep it up and we’ll be splitting your share, as well,” he warned. He turned to the overburdened packhorse hitched to the stallion’s saddle and began removing bundles. “Anyone find the lady’s baggage?”

“There’s some clothes in the big pack on the bottom, and that small wooden box is full of dry leaves and smelly potions.” Alf pulled the packs from the horse and opened them. “This be enough?”

Ralph pawed through the garments, frowning as his rough hands snagged the finely woven silks. “Aye, take out a couple gowns—not the best ones, mind you—they’ll fetch a good price in Chester. No sense wasting it all on his lordship. He’ll have to take our word for it the wench is dead, or come see for himself. And he won’t.” He stuffed the remaining clothes back into the pack and laced it tight against the damp, then hoisted it onto the horse.

He stretched, grimacing at the pain burning in his joints. “I’m getting too old for chasing through the wood in the cold and wet. Mayhap after today’s work we can retire. We could live like kings on the jewels from this sword alone.”

Spying the wooden box on the ground, he picked it up and opened it. “Pah—what a stench!” he gasped. Worse than a midden in the summer sun. Why a noble lady would cart such as this around, he didn’t know. He dug through the contents, then dumped everything out and examined the inlaid lid. “’Tis a pretty piece—it might fetch something if we can get rid of the smell.”

He tossed it to Ned. “Put it with the rest. Then you, John and Alf take the good horses and head for Chester. We don’t want his lordship to steal our hard-earned booty—and he would, the scum. ‘Sides, there’s no good way to explain how we come by it, short of the truth. I’d just as soon not hang. I’ve learned my lesson ’bout thieving,” he said, holding up his hands. “Don’t get caught at it.”

The others laughed, but he could sense their fear. “Have a care,” he warned. “Them horses’re more than you’re used to. We don’t want to lose them. The rest of us’ll go get our pay, then meet you in Chester.”

Ned snatched up the reins and stood scowling. “What’s to keep you from makin’ off with our money?”

Ralph shoved him to the ground and kicked him in the ribs. “Don’t be a fool.” He nudged him again. “What you’re taking with you is likely worth a hundred times more than what that little prick is payin’ us.”

Casting a last, longing look at the stallion, Ralph went instead to one of the poorer horses and mounted up. “We’ll see you in Chester,” he said, waiting until the three rode away before heading southeast for a confrontation with his bloody lordship.

The last rays of the setting sun broke through the clouds as Nicholas and the mare topped the hill. He hoped the sudden burst of light was a sign their luck was about to change. God knew they needed fortune to smile upon them; he had much to do, and next to nothing with which to do it.

A cairn stood before a stone-framed opening in the hill tall enough to admit a man. Moss-shrouded dirt, lightly studded with bushes, covered the crown of the hill, and a spring—the origin of the stream—spilled from the ground
near the entrance. It looked like something from the land of fairy, the stone portal shimmering through the mist. Though not a fanciful man, Nicholas hoped they’d find some magic here, if such a thing existed.

He dropped the wood he’d gathered near the cave, then tied the mare to a sturdy bush before turning to Catrin. When he drew the hood away from her face he spied the tear tracks on her cheek. His fingers crept out of their own volition to smooth the marks away. She’d made no sound—even in her current state, she’d too much pride to let him hear her cry.

Pride he understood, being overburdened with it himself. How else had she found the strength to lash out at him? Any other woman would have remained in a swoon since the attack, or at the least complained of the pain. Though he wouldn’t have thought less of her had she reacted thus, he was grateful she had not

Lady Catrin might be the most aggravating woman he’d ever encountered, but he could not deny the exhilaration he felt whenever they clashed.

He refused to permit the bright glow of Lady Catrin uerch Dafydd to fade away.

Dirk in hand, he clambered over the rock-strewn mouth of the cave and stooped to pass through the doorway. In the faint light he discovered a stone-lined chamber tall enough for him to stand upright, the remnants of a fire pit in the middle. The dirt floor felt smooth and even, as though it bore the imprint of countless feet.

They’d be safe here while he fought the battle to save Lady Catrin’s life.

Reassured, Nicholas hurried to move her inside. Hands numb with cold, he fumbled with the wet leather until the knot gave way and she slid from the mare and slumped against him. Even her slight weight sent a jolt of pain
through his upper arm, reminding him that his own wound would need tending eventually.

But he had more important work to do for the nonce.

She moaned as he shifted her in his arms. He could almost believe she’d reached the end of her mettle—almost, but for the fact that he’d never dare underestimate her strength of will. And though ’twould be easier to treat her injuries if she remained in a swoon, he doubted he’d be so fortunate. More likely she’d awaken in a moment, ready to flay him with her tongue.

She felt so small, so dainty as he carried her into the cave. He’d forgotten that she barely reached his shoulder, for the force of her personality made her appear taller, stronger than he knew her to be.

Nicholas wrestled her cloak around to place beneath her and eased her onto her stomach, bringing her arm up to cushion her face. Straightening, he wiped sweat from his brow and went outside for the dog.

Somehow Idris had managed to get off the horse. He leaned against the mare, legs aquiver, his massive head drooping almost to the ground. Nicholas rushed toward him in time to catch him as he fell.

Cursing his two stubborn charges, Nicholas hefted the dog into his arms and lugged him inside. When he laid Idris down on the far side of the fire pit, the dog stared at his mistress and whined. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her,” Nicholas said, ruffling the animal’s coarse fur.

He worked swiftly in the dying light to gather kindling and arrange it beneath the wood in the fire pit. Then, scarcely able to see, he tended the mare, murmuring praise all the while. She’d borne a heavy burden today—had likely saved their lives. He wished he could give her grain and a warm stable to reward her as she deserved. Instead he led her to the stream to drink, then rubbed her down
with a handful of dry grass and left her to crop beneath the trees. They’d have need of her again, of that he had no doubt.

He only hoped ’twas a living woman she’d carry back to civilization.

Hands shaking with weariness, Nicholas paused just inside the cave and took a deep breath. In his present state, he feared he’d do naught but harm Catrin in his attempts to help her.

But without his help, she would surely die.

He groped his way to the fire pit and fumbled with the flint and steel until he managed to wheedle a spark from it. After several tries the tinder caught; he hovered over the tiny blaze, tending it carefully until the flames licked at the small mound of wood.

Catrin mumbled something, the words indistinct. The flickering light glinted upon her sweat-dampened brow and highlighted the pain etched upon her face. He could delay no longer.

Taking up a pitch-covered branch he’d found outside, he held it amidst the flames until the end glowed. Thrust into a crack in the stone wall, it cast a bright light throughout the entire cavern.

How should he proceed?

Calm spread through him as the fire began to warm the chamber. Hands steady, he gathered his meager supplies and sought to draw his wits together, as well. Two knives, flint and steel, cup, belt, a cracked wooden bowl he’d discovered in a corner…Were these enough to save Catrin’s life?

Even a simple barber had better tools than this.

Had Catrin worn a purse upon her belt? Though he had not noticed, what woman left her chamber without one, fairly bulging with God knew what?

She moaned as he eased her onto her side and moved her nearer to the fire. Just as he’d suspected, a soft leather pouch hung from her leather girdle by a silver chain. Afraid to let his hopes rise too high, he unhooked the chain and loosened the drawstrings.

He hesitated but a moment before he tipped the contents onto the floor. A surprising assortment of items spilled out. Most looked useless for his purposes, but a small wooden case, smoothly carved with fanciful designs, caught his attention. Lady Gillian carried her needles and pins in a similar box. A spindle of thread lay beside it.

He fumbled to loosen the lid and sent the contents showering onto Catrin’s cloak in a shimmering cascade.

She cursed, capturing his attention. He hadn’t realized she was awake. “Have a care,” she whispered. “Needles are costly, and easily lost.”

“Aye, milady.” Squinting as his vision blurred, he bent to pick them up. “At the moment they’re more valuable to me than all the king’s riches.” He dropped the last pin into the box and replaced the lid. “Now I can care for your wounds.”