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‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Well worth the chase, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Indeed, my lord.’
Ashlynn kicked her mount forward in one last futile attempt to break free. The animal plunged but the grip on the bridle held firm. The Norman surveyed the proceedings with evident amusement.
‘Whither away, wench? Surely you would not deprive us of your company so soon?’
She looked around in mounting panic at the ring of grinning faces.
‘Get her off the horse.’
Men moved to obey. In spite of her resistance strong hands dragged her from the saddle. With pounding heart Ashlynn watched the knight dismount and move towards her. All her instinct was to flee but the two soldiers on either side held her fast. Then she was face to face with her captor.
‘Did you really think to escape?’ A mocking smile twisted his lips as he ran his gaze over her. ‘Of course you did. You couldn’t know that Waldemar de Fitzurse never loses his quarry.’
Ashlynn’s eyes blazed with rage and hatred. ‘Murderers! Norman brutes!’
The words ended in a gasp for he hit her hard, a stinging blow that brought the water to her eyes. Warm blood trickled from her lip.
‘These rebellious northern swine must be taught better manners.’ The words were quietly spoken but the tone sent a chill through her.
‘Shall I kill her now, my lord?’ The man called De Vardes stepped forward with a drawn dagger.
Ashlynn felt a hand in her hair yanking her head back and then the icy point at her throat, but her eyes never left Fitzurse. He would give the word now and all this would end with one welcome thrust of the blade.
‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘I am minded to have her first.’ His hand casually brushed across the front of her gown. Ashlynn glared at him. The Norman’s smile widened. ‘I detect defiance here that would be humbled. The rest of you may take your turns when I’m done. If she’s still alive after that then she’s all yours, De Vardes.’
Ashlynn’s stomach lurched. The swift death she had hoped for would not come. They intended to make her long for it instead. She saw Fitzurse glance over his shoulder towards the barn.
‘Take her in there and strip her.’
Chapter Two
As they dragged her back towards the ruined building Ashlynn began to shout and fight like one possessed, her screams shattering the still morning air. It availed her nothing. If anything it seemed only to add to the enjoyment of the men who held her. They reached the barn and, kicking the door open, strode inside with Fitzurse following at leisure a few paces behind. Dry mouthed with horror Ashlynn struggled harder but in vain for they held her with ease. One man pinioned her arms while the other unfastened her cloak and let it fall, his hand moving across her breast with coarse and deliberate slowness. She shivered as he stepped in closer and gripped the neck of her gown. For one moment her gaze met his and saw the mocking smile before he ripped the cloth apart in one sharp downward jerk. Never taking his eyes off her face he did the like with the kirtle beneath pulling the material wide to reveal her breasts. Only then did he glance lower and the cold eyes glinted in evident appreciation. He was not alone.
‘Well, now, a very pretty little chicken,’ said Fitzurse. ‘I would see more, Duchesne.’
His henchman grinned. ‘As you wish, my lord.’
Ashlynn trembled as his hands reached for the fabric of her gown.
Outside among the trees at the top of the sloping pasture another group of horsemen drew rein in obedience to their leader’s command. Mounted on a dapple grey stallion he held the powerful horse in check with one gauntleted hand while his keen gaze swept the scene taking in the barn and the group below. Then he glanced at the man beside him.
‘It seems our information was correct, Dougal.’
‘Aye,’ replied his lieutenant. ‘It has to be them.’
‘It’s them all right. That blue roan destrier down yonder belongs to De Vardes. The cur never strays far from Fitzurse’s heel. In any case they’ve left a trail of devastation that a four-year-old child could follow.’
‘Aye, Reedham, Welbourne, Heslingfield.’ The other shook his head in disgust. ‘The cowardly dogs attack women and children because they like the certainty of winning, my lord.’
‘Let’s shorten the odds and find out how they greet our Scottish steel. We’ll hit them fast and hard. Pass the word back.’
As the latter hastened to do his bidding the rider on the grey horse never let his gaze shift from the scene in front of him. A few moments later he heard the soft scraping sound that accompanied the drawing of many swords. Then Dougal returned, blade at the ready, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes.
‘Just say the word, my lord, and let us at them.’
His laird nodded. ‘Kill as many as you can. We’ll take no Norman prisoners. But remember…’
‘Aye, I know. Fitzurse is yours.’
‘That he is. The bastard little dreams this day is his last.’
Lifting his sword arm he touched the grey with his spurs and called the charge. Quivering with excitement the big horse leapt forward, hearing behind the echoing battle cry as fifty riders burst from cover and hurtled down the slope toward the foe.
Taken completely by surprise the Normans could at first only stare at the advancing tide of horsemen. Then, as they awakened to the impending danger, the instinct for self-preservation returned. Amid shouting and confusion they scrambled to remount, turning then to face the enemy with scant time to draw their swords before the Scottish vanguard was upon them in a deadly wave of steel.
The laird’s blade cleaved its first skull and came back for a wicked lunge into the next opponent. He heard the death scream and was aware of the rider toppling sideways even as a third opponent closed in. Since both hands were engaged with sword and shield he used his seat and legs to guide the powerful horse beneath him. At the given signal the grey reared, striking out at the enemy with its iron-shod hooves. Thrown off balance by the attack the bay destrier screamed and staggered, its rider crying out in agony as half a ton of targeted power drove downward, cracking bone and driving steel links through leather and padding into the flesh beneath. Grey-faced and swaying in the saddle the rider swore at the pain in his ruined knee. Before he could regain his balance the Scottish sword slashed across his breast. Saved by the mail hauberk he looked down, scrabbling for the reins in an attempt to wheel the horse away from the danger for the injured leg was useless. That moment’s inattention cost him dear and with a savage thrust the Scot drove his blade into his enemy’s ribs. The man’s face held a look of shocked disbelief. Then the Norman’s sword fell from nerveless fingers and he toppled sideways from the saddle to lie still in the snow amid a widening pool of red.
Reining in the grey, the Scottish warlord surveyed the field. Everywhere the churned snow was stained red and scattered with the fallen. The Norman numbers were dwindling fast as he knew they must but his gaze still sought one man. Rage burned anew as he discovered no sign of his quarry. Where the hell was Fitzurse?
Ashlynn heard from without the spine-prickling war cry from fifty throats followed by a warning shout in French and the sound of thudding hooves, then more shouts and the clash of steel. Fitzurse frowned. For a moment he was quite still, listening intently. The din without intensified and his men released their hold on her. Fitzurse’s hand went to the sword at his side and in cold terror Ashlynn saw him unsheathe the blade. Seeing her expression he bared his teeth in a smile.
‘Never fear, chicken, I’ll be back and we shall continue where we left off. Waiting will only make the pleasure all the sweeter.’
With that he turned and strode to the door: then with one last glance at his prisoner he was gone.
For some moments after Fitzurse left Ashlynn remained where she was, weak with relief, her body trembling with horror and revulsion, still unable to believe the narrowness of her escape. Outside she could hear the unmistakable sounds of battle, the clash of arms and neighing horses and shouting voices. Her heart leapt. She had no idea who the new combatants were and cared even less, but while men slaughtered each other she might be able to make good her escape. If they saw her they would kill her but it could not be worse than remaining. Just a small taste of what Fitzurse had planned for her made a swift end at the point of a sword seem infinitely preferable. Even if the French did not survive the fighting the victors might well decide to investigate the barn. If they did they would find her and there was no guarantee their behaviour would be any different. On top of that she might just freeze to death for the cold was biting.
Shaking violently she pulled up the rent gown and looked about for her cloak. It had been slung aside when Fitzurse’s men had begun to strip her. After a frantic search she located it at last and threw it about her shoulders, holding it together over her torn clothing. Then she crept towards the door.
Peeping through a crack in the woodwork Ashlynn watched the pitched battle without. A large mounted group of dark-clad and wild-looking warriors were falling with evident enthusiasm upon the Norman mercenaries who were putting up a fierce resistance. However, there appeared to be far more of the newcomers than there were of the French and several bodies littered the ground already. It meant the fight would be over all too soon. She must use the confusion to make good her escape. Taking a deep breath she opened the door a little way and slipped out, darting looks left and right. An area of open ground surrounded the ancient barn but beyond it was a copse that might afford cover. Summoning all her remaining courage she edged along the wall to the rear of the barn until at length it was between her and any observers. Then she ran.
She was barely halfway to the trees when she heard the sound of muffled hoof beats behind and then a shout. A glance over her shoulder revealed the approaching Norman horseman, and her heart leapt towards her throat. Without staying to see more she fled. The sound of hoof falls grew louder and then Ashlynn was jerked off her feet. Suddenly vision became limited to galloping hooves and flung snow and a horse’s shoulder, every bone in her body jarred by the swift pace. The saddle pommel pressed into her stomach making it harder to breathe.
After what seemed an eternity the horse slowed and she had a confused impression of trees and the sound of flowing water. A large gauntleted fist dragged her upright and a mailed arm closed about her waist. Chain mail links dug into her back. Chill air met bare flesh beneath her torn gown. Ashlynn glanced up and with sick horror saw that her captor was Fitzurse.
However, his attention was not on her just then but rather on the mounted figure who had reined in some thirty yards away. Automatically she followed his gaze and drew in a sharp breath as her startled mind registered a powerful dapple grey stallion almost seventeen hands at the shoulder. The beast was impressive enough but it was the rider who commanded every ounce of her attention. Flowing black hair framed a rugged, cleanshaven face that was arresting for the angular planes of cheek and jaw. It spoke of a man in his late twenties perhaps, but otherwise gave nothing away. Its very lack of expression sent a shiver to the core of her being. Boots, breeches, tunic and gauntlets were all of leather as dark as his hair and a great fur-lined cloak was thrown about a pair of powerful shoulders. He emanated an aura of dangerous strength, an impression enhanced by the wicked-looking dagger thrust in his belt and the great blood-stained sword casually held across the saddle bow.
For the space of several heartbeats neither man moved. Then her captor laughed softly.
‘Well, well, I little thought to have the pleasure of meeting you again.’
‘Everything comes to him who waits,’ replied the other, ‘and I have waited long for this moment.’
Fitzurse bared his teeth in a mocking smile. ‘Ah, the aggrieved Scot. Not still smarting surely?’
‘’Tis you will smart, Fitzurse.’
‘No, I shall have your head on a spear.’
The laird lifted his sword. ‘This shall determine that.’ Then the dark gaze flicked to Ashlynn. ‘I see you’re still in the habit of carrying off defenceless women.’
Fitzurse glanced down at his captive and his smile widened. ‘Do you like her? I’ll give her to you—by way of recompense.’
As he spoke his hand pulled aside the torn edge of her gown to reveal what lay beneath, ignoring her efforts to prevent it. The laird’s dark gaze took in every intimate detail and lingered. In spite of the cold Ashlynn’s flesh burned. Crimson-cheeked, she glared at the man on the grey but still that impassive face gave nothing away. Eventually his attention returned to her captor and when he spoke his voice was perfectly level.
‘The only recompense I’ll accept this day, Fitzurse, is your head.’
‘Attack me and the girl dies.’
‘Perhaps,’ replied the other, ‘but then so will you.’
Ashlynn watched as the stranger brandished the great sword aloft. The blade glinted in the cold light. With hammering heart she saw him nudge the grey stallion into a walk. She expected Fitzurse to advance and meet it, and could only pray that death would be swift when it came. However, instead of advancing, her captor reined back some ten yards and brought his horse parallel to the stream hard by. Swollen with rain and snow the stream was wide and twice its usual depth, the current swift and strong. Feeling his hold alter, Ashlynn’s eyes widened as an unpleasant implication dawned. Surely he would not…The thought ended on a shriek as he lifted her clear of the saddle and flung her into the swirling water.
Fitzurse called to his opponent. ‘If you want her, McAlpin, you’ll have to pull her out.’
Stopped in his tracks for a moment the Scottish laird swore softly, his hand clenched round the hilt of the sword. The other held in the curvetting stallion. He glanced once toward the stream, saw the woman catch hold of an overhanging branch and smiled grimly. Then he spurred forward to meet his enemy.
Ashlynn surfaced with a choking gasp for the shock of the icy water drove all the breath from her body. Dragged along with the powerful current she fought instinctively to keep her head above water. It was instinct too that made her grab for the overhanging branch. It arrested her progress but the water dragged relentlessly at her clothing and with each passing moment the cold sapped her strength. If she didn’t get out and soon, she was going to die. Somewhere in the background she heard the clash of swords. A frantic glance took in the fighting figures on the bank. Her clutching hands inched along the branch. As she shifted her weight the wood cracked like a whip. Ashlynn screamed and fell back into the water. It swept her headlong on its course for another hundred yards before slamming her against a large rock. Her icy fingers clutched desperately at the slippery surface for the force of the current threatened to sweep her away again at any moment. Mentally she wondered how long she could hold on. Another minute? Two? A voice inside her head said it didn’t matter. If she did not drown the cold would kill her and then it would all be over. She closed her eyes.
The exchange of blows was fierce and evenly matched at first with neither man gaining the advantage until the Scot’s blade cracked against his enemy’s head in a savage back-handed slash. Had it not been for the helm the blow would have severed the top of Fitzurse’s skull. The Norman reeled in the saddle, temporarily stunned. Iain wheeled the grey round to go in for the kill. Then, from somewhere behind him, he heard the woman scream. Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder to where she had been. The branch was gone and she too. He frowned. That moment’s diversion proved expensive for when he looked back Fitzurse was bent low on his horse’s neck, spurring away through the trees. A hundred yards away three other riders in helmet and mail appeared. Seeing Fitzurse they reined in and waited. As soon as he had joined them, all four rode away at a gallop. The Scot glared after them then back at the stream. Just then the woman screamed again and, hearing it, he swore fluently.
Ashlynn could no longer feel her hands, only the drag of the water against her body. Soon she would have to let go and it would take her. Then, through the numbing cold, a voice penetrated her consciousness.
‘Give me your hand, lass.’
She had a brief impression of a horse’s neck and shoulder and a man’s reaching arm. It towed her out and lowered her on to the bank. For a moment or two she lay there, gasping, unable to take it in, aware only of the cold, bitter, numbing and heart deep. Locked in its grip her body shook uncontrollably. Saddle leather creaked and then a pair of boots appeared in her line of vision. Her gaze followed them upward and came to rest on a face that was vaguely familiar. Memory began to return.
For a moment the Scottish laird was quite still, his gaze held by eyes the colour of cornflowers. They were the only colour in her face. The flesh on the delicate bones was deathly pale. He shuddered inwardly, reminded suddenly of another face and another time. This one would die too unless she got some warmth very soon.
‘Come, stand up, lass.’
In response to that firm command Ashlynn struggled on to her knees. However, when she tried to rise, the sodden gown tangled itself round her legs and she staggered. Strong hands dragged her upright. She didn’t see the swift appraising glance that took in every detail of her shivering form.
‘I wager you’ll live, but we need to get you out of those wet things.’
For a moment the words made no sense. Then, as the implication dawned, her hands clutched protectively at the torn edges of her gown.
‘No.’
‘Dinna be a fool. You’ll catch your death.’
He reached for the front of her gown. Seeing his intent she turned to run but staggered again and almost fell, prevented only by the arm about her waist. Ashlynn shrieked, struggling to free herself from his hold but it was like doing battle with oak. The arm yielded not a whit. It swung her round instead bringing her eyes level with a broad chest. Panicking now she struck out with clenched fists. They might as well have been bird wings and, as they had relinquished their grip on her clothing, her garments fell open affording him an uninterrupted view of what lay beneath. He caught his breath. The reality close to only served to reinforce his earlier impression.
‘Well now, not just a pretty face then.’
As soon as the words were spoken he regretted them, realising they were hardly calculated to reassure, but his temper just then was not of the best. Thanks to her his quarry was away and free. Just why he hadn’t left the wench to drown was a mystery. Right now he half-wished he had.
‘Be still, you little hellcat!’
‘Let go of me!’
‘I said be still,’ he growled.
For answer Ashlynn kicked out and felt the blow connect. He gritted his teeth but his grip yielded not at all.
‘All right, have it your way, you contrary little vixen.’
Without warning his hands closed on the edges of her gown and dragged it down over her shoulders. Ashlynn began to fight like a cornered wildcat. In her panic she saw only Fitzurse’s men, felt their hands on her, restraining her while they did their will. It was all happening again. She wanted to scream but her throat was dry and suddenly it was harder to breathe for it was as though there was an iron band around her chest. The stranger’s face loomed over hers. Then all colour drained from her cheeks and she was vaguely aware of him catching her before she fell into a dead faint.
She had no idea how long she was unconscious but when she came round it was to an awareness of voices, of men and horses. She was cold, her body shaking violently. Then something was supporting her shoulders and a hand was forcing a cup between her lips. She heard a man’s voice.
‘Drink this.’
The tone brooked no refusal. Hot sweet liquid carved a path down her throat and all the way to her stomach. Ashlynn gasped. He made her drink it all, but slowly, and by degrees the heat spread and began to warm the cold core within, enough for the shaking to subside a little. Becoming more aware she realised that she was swathed from head to foot in a huge fur-lined cloak.
Looking up for the first time she saw a black leather tunic. Above it was long dark hair and a face whose rugged good looks were only too familiar. Dark eyes met and held hers for a moment before turning their attention to someone opposite, out of her line of vision.
‘We’ll leave presently, Dougal. We’ve delayed long enough as it is and I want to reach Hexham tonight. Besides, the injured need tending.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘We need to be back at Dark Mount before the weather closes in.’
‘Aye, my lord.’ Dougal paused. ‘What about the lass?’
‘We’ll take her with us for the time being.’
‘I can see your reasoning. For a drowned rat she’s no so bad-looking. Dry, she’d be a welcome addition in any man’s bed.’
Ashlynn’s heart lurched. The man beside her glanced down briefly, his expression sour.
‘This one would turn your bed to a couch of thorns.’
‘Well then,’ Dougal continued, ‘sell her. She’d likely fetch a good price were ye minded to get one. Or ye could ransom her, did she have kin.’
He frowned. ‘I’ll decide later. In the meantime, where are the things I asked for? Where the devil is Archie?’
As if on cue another man hastened forward and handed over a bundle of cloth. ‘Beg pardon, my lord. I’d a problem with the size.’
The laird looked down at Ashlynn again and then at the bundle he was holding.
‘You’ll be needing this.’
For a moment she stared at it and then back at him. Then, slowly, her dulled wits began to understand the significance of the great cloak around her and the immediacy of the soft fur against her skin. Her cheeks, so pale before, turned scarlet.
If she could have hit him she would have but both hands were imprisoned beneath the folds of the heavy cloak. ‘How dare you treat me like this!’
‘Dare had nothing to do with it, you wee fool,’ he replied. ‘Your clothes were soaking and little better than rags anyway. If you’d kept them on you’d have gone down with a fatal ague for certain.’
