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He’d been right. Most of the looters had departed. One man only, laughing and whooping with delight, was engaged in pulling along a scratching, biting girl, whose gown and head veil were torn, a girl whose wrists had been bound with some cloth, possibly torn from a damaged wall hanging.
At the sudden entrance of a newcomer, her abductor raised a hand in guffawing greeting, as if to a companion, then his eyes narrowed as he recognised a stranger. He let go of the girl, who fell back against an overturned trestle, and, drawing his sword, got ready to defend his prize.
De Treville leaped into the attack, his soldier’s eye taking in the fact that the man appeared to have recently been engaged in conflict. He would be tired. There was no need for haste now. He could be defeated simply enough by being worn down.
De Treville called a curt command to Gisela. “Stand clear. Leave the man to me.”
She was distraught and totally exhausted and was only too glad to obey. She scrambled up from her tumble and moved warily to the side of the hall, her eyes never leaving the combatants. She looked across once at the sprawled form of Kenrick and hastily averted her eyes.
This contest at arms lasted very little time at all. She watched, dry-eyed, as de Treville skilfully fought the man back and back until he was tight against a trestle. One well-aimed move and her erstwhile captor had been thrust headfirst over the fallen trestle and de Treville leaned easily down and dispatched him with one thrust. The fellow gave only one strangled grunt as if utterly surprised.
Alain de Treville rose and moved towards the distraught girl. He sheathed his blood-smeared blade and, after freeing her hands and took one shaking hand within his, his head jerking upwards as two men came thundering down the stair behind the dais. They took in the sight of their fallen comrade and, laden down with valuables, thought it best to take to their heels and flee.
One made it, scrambling through the screen doors, dropping most of his trophies, but de Treville sprang over another fallen trestle and engaged the other swiftly. Taken as much by surprise as Gisela’s former captor, the man took a thrust beneath the arm where his mailed hauberk was weakest and dropped with scarce a murmur and the clatter of metal cups as they fell from his hands.
Gisela had run towards Kenrick’s body. He was lying face down and, frantically, she tried to turn him, the tears she had held back till now streaming down her face.
De Treville reached her and bent down to draw her aside gently. “Let me.”
She sat back on her heels, mutely entreating him to inform her that Kenrick still lived. He turned the young man, noting grimly the gaping chest wound and blood soaking the rushes beneath him. His questing fingers sought the side of the neck for sign of a pulse and he looked up quickly to meet Gisela’s agonised gaze and gently shook his head.
“I am sorry.”
She let out a terrible sob and put one shaking hand to her lips.
“He died protecting you?”
She nodded mutely.
“Then you must be glad for him that he died a true man’s death, fighting for one he cared about.”
“I—I have known him all my life. He…he is Kenrick of Arcote…”
He nodded, rose to his feet and, slipping off his mantle, he covered Kenrick’s form after gently closing the staring eyes.
Gisela gave another great gulp of terror. She looked round wildly at the sprawled bodies. So far she had not been able to recognise individual servants, womenfolk and—and still—still—she had not identified her father.
De Treville put his hands to her shaking shoulders and drew her to her feet, then he led her to a bench, which he righted, and pushed her gently but firmly down upon it.
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