Snow in July (12 page)

WITH SNAKE in the lead and Rat holding Hilde’s reins, the party plodded south across the valley toward the tallest point on the ridgeline. As the darkness advanced and the ascent grew steeper and rockier, Hilde began to stumble more often. Finally, Kendra dismounted to complete the trek on foot.

What Snake had called shelter revealed itself as the ruins of a temple. Many of the columns had fallen from what she guessed to be generations of neglect. Why the stone hadn’t been carted away for building materials she attributed to the temple’s remoteness. Faded, chipped mosaics of bare-breasted women being chased by prancing, horned, goat-footed men-creatures with unconcealed genitalia proclaimed the temple’s pagan origins. What rites had been performed atop such bawdy floor decorations she had no desire to ponder.

Snake sent Rat to draw water for the horses, an order the other man grumblingly obeyed. Apparently unconcerned by the vulgar mosaics, Snake drew tinder and flint from his saddlebag and knelt below one of the larger holes in the roof to start a fire. The small stones ringing a patch of blackened tiles proved this wasn’t an original idea.

She studied the roof, trying to determine where she would be best protected from the weather overnight. Some of the curved red tiles, each as long as a forearm, had fallen through gaping holes, and fragments littered the floor. Though careful to avoid the large shards, she felt scores of smaller ones grind to ochre powder underfoot. She selected a spot at the base of the waist-high altar and hunkered inside her cloak while Snake collected twigs to feed his infant flame. Since she couldn’t trust Snake as far as she could heave him, and Rat half that far, she appreciated the solidity of stone at her back.

Rat came stomping in only to be sent out to fetch deadfall for the fire. Each time he returned with an armload, he dropped the wood with a horrific clatter and shot a pointed glance first at the lewd mosaic and then at Kendra.

She did her best to ignore Rat, focusing instead on the growing flames as they devoured the wood.

Snake disappeared into the shadows between a pair of upright columns. A series of sounds emerged: the scrape of stone on stone, the clang of metal, Snake’s sharp oath. He returned a few minutes later with a kettle in one hand and several iron rods tucked in the opposite armpit. While Rat departed for water, Snake set the kettle down and proceeded to fit the rods into a three-legged structure straddling the fire. A fourth, shorter rod ending in a hook dangled from the apex. Upon Rat’s return, Snake ordered him to fill the kettle and hoist it onto the hook.

Again Snake rose and went to the kettle’s hiding place, this time returning with a battered tin ladle, three tin mugs, and a small packet wrapped in muslin. When he offered to brew her a posset, she politely declined, asking instead for a mug of hot water. He grunted and settled beside Rat to wait for the flames to complete their work.

Kendra grabbed her saddle pack and hunted for the ground willow bark, which she hoped would take the edge off her aches. She debated whether to add valerian but decided to conserve her dwindling supply. Her stomach noisily reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since her capture, and she made short work of her remaining bread and cheese.

When Snake brought the mug to her, padded with a scrap of leather, she asked, “Is this where you live?” It would be a comfort to know she’d be held no more than a day’s ride from home.

“This?” He surveyed the crumbling ceiling. “This be naught but a way station. Serves all who know of it.” He grinned, though it seemed forced. “We enter Dragon’s den on the morrow.”

A chill crept up her spine that the mug’s warmth was powerless to dispel.

Chuckling, Snake straightened and withdrew to the other side of the fire, where Rat had already bedded down, wrapped in his cloak with his saddle pack for a pillow.

She dropped in a pinch of powdered willow bark but didn’t wait long for it to steep before taking a sip. Thinking better of it, she set the mug beside her and stared into the flames. For a moment, she fancied Del’s face wavering there. Her fingers crept toward her neck, where the locket’s cord should have been, and found naught but skin. With a start, she recalled that Snake had cut it off and given it to one of his men to take back to her father as proof of her abduction. She shuddered, imagining how easily he could have sliced her throat. Her dagger wouldn’t be much of a deterrent against his seax.

Even after Del’s death, she had never felt more helpless, afraid, or so utterly alone.

Stripped of her last tangible link to her dear brother, her mind grasped on to the memory of another man, one who’d given her a single red rose. She drew her knees to her chin, hugged her shins, and squeezed her eyes shut against the welling tears.

AS THE Normans approached Edgarburh’s hall, a burst of shouts emanated from within. The outlaws, Alain guessed, were still wrangling over his proposal. He and Ruaud stopped on the last step, and Ruaud shot him a glance as if to ask whether Alain intended to proceed. Alain pounded on the door. Beneath the noise, he heard Ruaud’s sigh.

Two guards opened the doors, and a hush conquered the crowd. One would have thought the king himself had appeared. Alain gave Ruaud a subtle nod and he strode in, with Alain trailing a discreet half pace behind.

Without even so much as a meat knife, Alain felt naked as they passed the outlaws, who gave them measuring stares. Since they concentrated most of their scrutiny upon Ruaud, Alain suspected “naked” couldn’t begin to describe how his friend must feel. Yet Ruaud’s stride did not falter as they traveled the aisle to approach Waldron upon the dais.

“Sir Ruaud d’Auvay,” intoned Waldron, “what is your decision?”

Alain began to translate, but Ruaud held up a hand, expression grave. “I help daughter of you. I and my squire, if they”—he jerked a contemptuous nod over his shoulder—“agree.”

“We donna give a bloody damn about your squire.” The outlaws’ spokesman looked as if he wanted to surge forward, but Waldron’s men kept him at bay.

“Both or no accord!” Grinning, Ruaud added, “No gold of King William.”

This prompted more arguing among the outlaws, though it seemed to Alain the sole dissenter would soon lose. As he watched in morbid fascination, he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned to find Ruaud also had turned, and Waldron was regarding them.

“Whatever happens, I cannot thank you enough. Both of you,” the thane said. “Please know you go with my prayers, and the prayers of all Edgarburh. May God grant you mercy, strength, and courage.”

Waldron extended his hand to Ruaud, and they gripped forearms with a depth of sentiment that needed no translation. Moments before Alain’s turn, he noticed a flash of white in Waldron’s palm. They too gripped forearms, but rather than letting go, Waldron slid his hand back. Since the outlaws were approaching, Alain stashed the packet, unopened, in his pouch.

“For Kendra,” whispered Waldron. “May it help you too.”

Alain had no time to wonder about the gift as the outlaws produced lengths of leather cord for binding his and Ruaud’s wrists. After they had finished, Alain gave several experimental tugs, feeling the cords scrape his flesh. The knots held fast.

The outlaws shoved Ruaud and Alain, and their march into captivity began.

The looks they earned from Waldron’s men contained more pity than anything else, as though they didn’t hold much hope for the Normans’ success. Alain couldn’t disagree, but neither could he fall prey to doubts, his or anyone else’s.

Kendra’s life—no, all of their lives, he realized as they passed from the torchlit hall’s safety into the gaping maw of night—depended upon it.

Chapter 6

A
BLOW TO the ribs roused Alain from a fitful sleep. Rolling away earned him a kick on the other side. He rolled again, ending on his stomach.

“Hey, Pit, Pretty Boy wants a good buggering. You going to oblige him or should I?”

Despite being stiff and sore from sleeping on rocky ground, he couldn’t sit up fast enough. He glared at the two men looming over him, trying to discern which one was “Pit.” Both outlaws were of roughly equal height, though where one was florid and endowed with bulging muscles, the other had angular features, long black hair, a deep tan, and dark, darting eyes.

The outlaw with the flaming red hair, beard, and mustache, who’d acted as spokesman and whose bare arms were smothered with dark blue spirals from wrist to shoulder, grabbed Alain by the hair and yanked him to his feet. “We havena time for such sport.” By the northern accent, which Alain recognized from a childhood visit to his mother’s relatives, he surmised this was the man called Pit. Tightening his grip, Pit planted a hard kiss full on Alain’s mouth. “Think that’ll do ye for now, lassie?”

He itched to spit in Pit’s face but decided that would buy him more trouble than he could afford. Pit shoved him to his hands and knees in the dirt, adding another kick. He spat out Pit’s vile taste and dragged an arm across his face to erase the prickle of Pit’s whiskers.

It didn’t help.

Chortling, the two men stomped away, presumably to inflict their crude jests upon Ruaud, who’d been guarded across the camp. Alain rose to his knees, eyes shut and hands folded, trying to remember the morning prayer, but the only words to obey his summons were:

Do you think she is worth the risk?

Last night, he had felt certain. Now, he was anything but.

The dull thuds of flesh striking flesh, accompanied by chortles and oaths and groans, drew his attention. Pit and his companion obscured the view. Whatever Ruaud had done, they were making him pay. Alain’s stomach writhed.

Is she worth the risk?

The hell of it was that now wasn’t the time to make a move on their guards. They were heading westward, toward Glastonbury, but their course proved nothing. He had no guarantee that Kendra would be waiting at the place these men were taking Waldron’s gold. The outlaws had insisted on Waldron providing half of their original demand to offset the cost of feeding extra mouths, though Alain expected to sup on no better fare than stale bread, moldy cheese, and sour ale.

Is she worth it?

He closed his eyes and bowed his head to pray for strength, wisdom, patience, guidance, opportunities—for anything useful that God might see fit to grant. An image hove to mind of the raped and beaten maidservant, sobbing in a wretched heap at Waldron’s feet. This time, when she lifted her head to regard Alain, her face looked agonized, beseeching, accusing…and it was Kendra’s.

Is she?

It galvanized him, and he redoubled the urgency of his prayer.

Forgive me, Ruaud…

A whack between the shoulder blades pitched him forward. He caught himself before hitting the ground, and regretted it as fresh pain lanced his left arm. Fighting to keep his expression neutral, he pushed to his feet.

The third guard said, “Prayer time’s over, Saint Pretty Boy.” He deposited the chest of gold into Alain’s hands. “Go help your fonging mate load up.” The man tossed a nod toward his companions, who’d seated themselves around the fire to break fast. “Hurry, or there’ll be nothing left.”

Alain watched in amazement as the man left him and Ruaud unbound and unguarded with the gold and horses as if knowing escape was not Alain’s intent.

Faced with such a tempting opportunity, he considered bolting back to Edgarburh to enlist Waldron’s men as reinforcements but discarded the idea. For one thing, these outlaws knew the land. Though it had been full dark when they’d departed, Alain had a fairly clear sense of the way back, but he suspected that obstacles he hadn’t noticed before could slow their escape. Even if by some miracle he and Ruaud eluded pursuit, they would remain ignorant of Kendra’s whereabouts. The passage of time and the confusion of trails would make tracking her nigh impossible, and her captors, alerted to the possibility of a frontal assault, would fortify their defenses.

In such a scenario, Kendra would be the loser.

With a glance at the outlaws, who were sharing a jest and not paying him any mind, he walked to the picket line. Face to face over the back of Waldron’s packhorse was the closest the outlaws had permitted him and Ruaud to come. Ruaud’s condition stabbed Alain with guilt. His face was bruised, his lip was split and bloody, and the darkening flesh around one eye was beginning to swell it shut. The other glared at Alain.