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Ralph drew himself up and stood his ground. “You owe us, milord. ’Tain’t our fault things didn’t go the way you planned. Lady Catrin is dead—go see for yourself if you don’t believe us. ‘Course, by now the wolves’ve likely been at her, but what can ye do? ’Tis too risky for us to be trottin’ through the woods wi’ a dead noble-woman. By the rood, we’d be dead men ourselves fer that.”
Steffan stared at Ralph’s misshapen hands. “Been caught at mischief before, I see.”
Ralph held up his hand and wiggled his three remaining fingers. “I have. And that’s why I don’t plan on getting caught again. Be my neck, the next time.” He motioned his man up off the floor. “We killed her, ’tis true, but we lost eight men ourselves. You can’t expect us to take a loss like that for nothin’. We came for our money, and we aim to get it.”
He’d had enough of these fools. “You’ll get nothing from me until you can prove to me that she’s dead—or bring her to me alive. I’ll not accept that she’s gone until I see her corpse for myself. I’ll pay you then, and not a moment sooner.”
Cursing, Ralph snatched the gowns off the floor and stuffed them in the sack. “Come along, lads. ’Tis plain his lordship’s in a right foul mood. Be wasting our time trying to make him see sense.” He slung the sack over his shoulder. “You know how to find me, milord, should you change your mind.” Turning on his heel, he led his men out the door.
Steffan stomped out after them and paused on the landing. “Huw,” he yelled once they’d started down the steps. The soldier crossed the hall and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Get up here.”
Looking much put-upon, Huw climbed up to join him at a leisurely pace. “Now what, milord?”
Though tempted to knock Huw back down the stairs for his insolence, instead Steffan motioned him closer. “Find a man you can trust and send him to follow those jackals,” he said in a low voice. “I want to know where they go and who they speak to—as soon as possible.”
“Aye, milord.” Huw sent him a mocking salute as he left.
Steffan lingered at the railing and watched his impertinent servant’s slow descent, vowing to light a fire under him at the next opportunity. For the moment he needed Huw, but another chance would present itself soon, no doubt, since Huw irritated him with annoying regularity. “Escort those vermin from the keep,” he called after him. “Don’t let them in again until they bring me what I need.”
Waving his acknowledgment, Huw fell into step behind the three men as they left the hall.
More inept bandits he’d never seen! Steffan stormed into his chamber and slammed the door.
It seemed that no one he hired ever did an adequate job. Something was always lacking, some vital spark necessary to ensure the success of his ventures.
Perhaps he should take care of his concerns himself. He couldn’t depend upon anyone—his schemes always ended up in ruins.
Look at this situation! He snatched the wineskin off the floor and drank deeply as he considered how it had gone wrong. Such a simple plan, to abduct Catrin from her meager guard.
He’d nearly shouted with joy when his spy at Gwal Draig sent word that Catrin had set out for l’Eau Clair with so little protection. No one there knew she was coming, and Ian wasn’t expected home for another week, at least. Plenty of time to make her pay for the loss of Gillian and l’Eau Clair.
If only Catrin had minded her own business he would be lord and master of l’Eau Clair now, a powerful Marcher lord. His noble cousin Llywelyn—even King John of England himself—would have danced to his tune. The beautiful Lady Gillian would be his bride, although that didn’t seem such a prize now that he’d come to know her better.
Still, to hold l’Eau Clair within his grasp would be more than sufficient to compensate for her willfulness.
And he’d have shown her who was master soon enough.
Catrin had ruined it all with her concern for Gillian. “I’ve heard that my dear cousin has come to stay with you,” she’d said after Huw had stolen Gillian from her own keep and brought her to Bryn Du. “You must let me visit her.”
He’d had no choice but to allow Catrin to see Gillian, not without rousing her suspicions. He’d known Catrin was a bold, daring wench, but he’d never have suspected her to be in league with Rannulf FitzClifford. She hated Normans!
“She is ill, Steffan—let me bring a physician to examine her,” she’d offered.
Ill! The perfidious bitch wasn’t ill.
She was pregnant with another man’s child.
He’d have taken Gillian to wife as soon as she’d been rid of her bastard.
Indeed, he’d planned to free her of the Norman whelp sullying her womb as soon as possible.
But Catrin’s “physician” had been Gillian’s lover, FitzClifford. They’d wrested her from him and spirited her away from Bryn Du. His dear kinswoman Catrin, allied with the Normans to spoil his plans.
Nay, his destiny.
With their royal blood combined, he and Gillian would have been equal to—nay, superior to—anyone in Wales.
Even Prince Llywelyn himself.
Catrin had done him ill so often, she could never make it up to him. Could he but get her into his grasp, however, he’d derive some recompense.
And by Christ, he’d enjoy it!
Catrin still lived, he could feel it. He’d know, somehow, if she were gone.
And if those fools could not bring her to him, he’d go out and find her himself.
Ralph and his men pushed their scraggly mounts until Bryn Du was little more than a blur against the sky. He couldn’t help but yearn for the smooth-gaited steed he’d taken from the Norman knight. Every bone-jarring jolt of the mount beneath him served to remind him how unprofitable this venture had proven thus far. Lord Steffan wouldn’t pay them; he’d seen that clear as day in the arrogant bastard’s face. And since it wasn’t easy to dispose of stolen goods, they weren’t likely to get anywhere near the real value of the items.
They stopped alongside a rushing stream. Ralph dismounted and stood for a moment with head bent, pondering what to do. It wouldn’t do to show a mite of weakness, else he’d be dead in no time.
“What do we do now?” Will asked. He hopped down from the saddle with surprising vigor considering how hard Lord Steffan had hit him. “I say we go back and try for the money again,” he added, fingers caressing the knife at his waist. “I’d like to sink my blade into that strutting cock.”
“Get yourself killed, more like,” Ralph told him. He bent and scooped water over his head—all he could do to cool his anger for now. “Here, Will, come stick your head in the water—your nose is still dripping blood. Mayhap the cold’ll put some sense in your noggin.”
Diccon knelt beside them, pausing to drink before offering his opinion. “I’d like to make that weasel pay. All the work we did, and he won’t pay.” He shook his head. “Can’t trust no one.”
Ralph settled back against a tree and nibbled on a dry crust while Diccon and Will bandied plots back and forth. ’Twas best to let them go on until they ran out of ideas—it wouldn’t take long. It was comfortable here in the forest, and he wasn’t in any hurry to leave.
A rustling in the bushes caught his attention. Will and Diccon bickered on, their voices masking his movements as he rose and slipped into the brush.
The spy never had a chance to cry out. Ralph wrapped his arm about the young man’s neck and stuffed a cloth into his mouth, then lashed his wrists together with a piece of rope.
Ralph dragged the youth by the tunic through the underbrush and shoved him to the ground at Will’s feet.
“Where did he come from?” Diccon asked as he whipped his dagger from his belt.
“Found him in the bushes there.” Ralph removed his prisoner’s knife from its scabbard and pointed the blade toward the path they’d made through the brush. “Spying on us. Will, go find his horse—and have a care, in case he brought company.”
Ralph nudged the youth onto his back and twitched out the gag. Eyes fixed upon Ralph’s misshapen hand, he gulped for breath. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked, voice faint.
“Depends on why you were watching us. Don’t suppose you’d care to tell me?” Ralph grinned in a friendly manner, though he kept the dagger in plain sight.
“My—my name’s Prys. I’m nobody important,” he stammered. “A poor farmer—”
Ralph turned Prys’s hands palm up. No farmer had hands that pale and soft. “I doubt it.” At the sound of muffled hoofbeats he turned and watched Will lead a saddled horse into the clearing. “And no farmer would own so fine a beast.”
Now that he thought about it, Ralph could see that his captive’s clothing looked like livery. He pressed the knife against Prys’s throat. “Did you follow us from Bryn Du?” he growled.
Prys trembled, but made no reply.
Ralph shoved the blade harder, until blood seeped from the shallow cut. “Answer me.”
“Huw said to follow you,” Prys replied quickly. “See where you went. Lord Steff—” The word ended in a croak. Ralph eased up on the blade and Prys tried again. “Wants to know where the woman is.”
Ralph moved the knife and sat back on his heels, allowing Prys to wriggle away from him. “I know nothing else, I swear! I only came because Huw made me. Let me join you,” he pleaded. “I can’t go back now. They’ll kill me.”
Will stepped closer. “’Tis a good idea, Ralph. We need more men.”
“Aye, Ralph,” Diccon piped up. “Lord Steffan’d never know. ‘Sides, he owes us—since he won’t give us our money, we’ll take his servant.”
Hope brightened Prys’s wan face, but Ralph refused to be swayed. Leaning forward, he grasped the youth by the shoulder. “Sorry, lad,” he said as he plunged the dagger to the hilt
“Ralph,” Will gasped, mouth flapping. “What did you do that for?”
“Are you mad?” Ralph asked. He wiped the blade against Prys’s tunic, then stood and dragged the body into the bushes. “What if he went back to Bryn Du once he knew what really happened to the woman? Could be that Lord Steffan ordered him to find a way to join our band. ’Tisn’t a risk I wanted to take.”
He’d had enough of this, and these fools. “Come on—time to go. We’ve lingered here too long.” His movements jerky, he untied his horse and swung into the saddle, then snatched the reins of Prys’s mount from Will’s grasp. “This has been nothin’ but trouble from the start,” he said with disgust. “Least we’ve got the loot from the ambush. Should be worth somethin’.”
Not bothering to wait until Diccon and Will mounted up, Ralph urged the horses along. “On to Chester. I never want to see this benighted place again.”
Chapter Seven (#ulink_24c8adee-bd16-531f-809b-31c166bd0b71)
Saint Winifred save her—vermin had nested in her mouth. Catrin tried to swallow, but her mouth and throat felt dry as dust, and it seemed her tongue had swollen to at least twice its usual size.
Fiery heat scorched her side and imps stabbed at her with tiny pitchforks.
Had she passed on to hell?
Her wrists were bound. When had that happened? The last she recalled she’d been draped over a bony nag, arguing with someone. Stormy violet eyes, smooth, deep voice with a sardonic edge…’Twas Nicholas Talbot.
Why did it have to be him?
And how did he dare tie her up?
She needed water so badly she’d beg if she had to, though it galled her to ask Talbot for anything. Mentally elbowing her pride out of her way, she forced out the words.
“Talbot.” Her voice sounded little more than a hiss. “Talbot,” she repeated. Why didn’t he answer?
Her back screaming agony, she turned her face toward the fire. All she could see of him was a boot-clad foot protruding from a filthy cloak. “Damn you, Talbot. Wake up.”
She shifted her legs until she connected with something soft, eliciting a moan. Must have been his head. Despite her pain, she smiled.
“Wake up, you Norman idiot.” Her voice grew stronger with every word. She nudged him again. “Lazy fool.” A bead of sweat ran down her nose and plopped onto her sleeve. Though she tried, she couldn’t raise her bound hands enough to wipe her face.
“Talbot!”
A stream of curses, interspersed with moans and grunts, told of her success.
“Unless you’d like me to stuff that glove down your throat again, be silent.” Talbot sat up and faced her. Pale and whisker-stubbled, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, he still looked far better to her than any man had a right to.
Obviously her brain had been affected, too.
He squatted beside the fire pit and stirred up the coals. “Are you mad?” she asked as he piled on more wood. “It’s hotter than hell itself in here.”
“It only seems that way to you—you have a fever.” He held his hands out to the growing flames. “I’m so cold I doubt I’ll ever feel warm again.” His gaze rested upon her face. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Not since we stopped by the stream.” His earlier words came back to her. “What did you mean, stuff a glove in my mouth again?”
“You screeched something fierce last night. Yon beast—” he pointed to Idris “—didn’t care for it. Nor did I.” He held up his glove, teeth marks still visible in the battered leather. His smile, so fleeting she almost missed it, sent a strange feeling to lodge in the pit of her stomach. “’Twas the only way to quiet you—other than kissing you. But it wasn’t the right time for that, alas,” he added, amusement lighting his eyes in contrast to his solemn tone.
“Norman swine!” Her blood nigh boiled. “How I wish I could give you what you deserve.” She held up her wrists. “And what is your reason for this?”
“’Twas necessary.” He busied himself with something beside the fire. “You moved so much when I cut the arrows from your back, I feared you’d do yourself further harm.”
Now she knew why she hurt so much! But other than sore muscles from journeying slung over a horse like a sack of meal, only her back pained her. She’d suffered worse in the past—and survived.
However, that knowledge did nothing to ease her pain. Fire raged through her blood, radiating out from the wounds.
She hoped Talbot didn’t intend to go on today.
But the least he could do was free her. “You do intend to untie me, I trust.” A strange hissing distracted her from haranguing him further. She looked up and bit back a cry.
Stripped to the waist, Talbot tended to his own injury. His upper arm looked swollen, and blood seeped from around the hacked-off arrow.
“Why didn’t you care for your own wound?” She focused her curious gaze upon his broad shoulders and wellmuscled chest. Clearly Nicholas Talbot was no stranger to pain. Several scars marred the smooth, tanned flesh of his torso. The two on his left shoulder looked to have been severe.
Mayhap he considered his present injury a mere trifle.
He watched her while he prodded at his arm. “After I finished wrestling with you, I wanted nothing more than to rest. It feels no worse now than it did then,” he added with a shrug. “Compared to your back, ’tis naught.”
Unwilling to bear the weight of his scrutiny, Catrin glanced away. She did not believe him, for she’d seen how his lips tightened when he poked at the shaft protruding from his arm.
Her heart sank further within her chest. How much suffering had she caused through yesterday’s foolhardiness?
He shouldn’t have ignored his own needs to tend to hers.
She rested her cheek on her folded arms and settled her gaze on his face once more. “What are you going to do?”
Talbot wasted no time with words; breathing deep, he pushed the shaft through his arm.
Now she understood why she’d left teeth marks in the glove—and why her throat felt so raw. Sweat beaded on the taut planes of his face, but he made no sound. She bit at her lip to stifle her own cry when the arrowhead broke through his flesh in a gush of blood.
He flung the arrow aside and mopped at the blood dripping from his arm. His lips twisted into a rueful grin. “That’s a relief,” he said, wiping his brow against his good arm.
The urge to smile in return died a swift death as she considered her own lack of control. “You didn’t even need a glove,” she muttered. Though he could not know it, the loathing in her voice was directed at herself, not him.
He tied a scrap of cloth about his arm, then slid closer. “This is but a trifle compared to your wound.” He reached out and cupped her cheek in his palm.
