Authors: Rachelle McCalla
Chapter Fourteen
G
isela thought quickly. Since the moment she’d heard Elisabette had fled, Gisela had feared Rab the Raider might somehow capture her.
The barbarian’s Illyrian was awful. Gisela had been studying the language in preparation for her marriage to Warrick, and she quickly recognized that Rab’s leadership skills lay not in diplomacy but in his blade. If the rumors were to be believed, Rab the Raider was only half Illyrian, born of a Frankish mother and raised near Aachen. It wasn’t until Charlemagne had broken his nose and sent him into exile that Rab had traveled south, and he had yet to adopt much more of the local language than the basest curses.
Nor did he likely speak Latin, the official language of the Roman Empire. If he had, he’d have used it already, since John and most of his nobles were fluent in the tongue. Undoubtedly the Raider had no more aptitude for foreign languages than she had for playing the lyre. She had no choice but to address him in the tongue of the Frankish lowlands where he’d been raised.
Gisela stepped past her horse toward Rab and his men.
The blade crept closer to Elisabette’s slender neck. The kohl that rimmed Bette’s eyes had been smeared over the course of her flight, and now her fear-filled eyes looked that much wider.
Raising her open palms slowly in a gesture of innocence, Gisela addressed Rab in their common native tongue. “Please, don’t hurt the girl.”
Rab’s eyes widened at the sound of a language he had likely not heard since he’d left the Holy Roman Empire six years before. “Who are you?”
Figuring she’d have more to gain than lose by identifying herself, she admitted, “I am Princess Gisela, daughter of Charlemagne.”
Rab’s blade twitched, and Elisabette let out a tiny gasp.
“I have heard you were soon to be traveling this way. Your father broke my nose and banished me from my homeland.”
“And my father can help you gain what you seek. Don’t hurt the girl. Tell me what you want.”
“I want equal standing in my father’s household.”
His request made sense. Of course, rumors had long swirled that Rab’s father was an Illyrian nobleman of some sort, who’d fathered him while on a campaign in the north. Rab’s violent incursions were more than the natural overflow of his aggressive temperament. He was trying to get his father’s attention.
“Who is your father?”
“King Garren of the Dometians.”
The name was unmistakable. Elisabette straightened. She couldn’t have understood their conversation to this point, but she clearly recognized the name.
So Rab was Warrick’s illegitimate older brother, then. The Raider had taken Bern and given it to his father as an offering, looking for acceptance.
But no one seemed to know that Rab was King Garren’s son.
The king obviously had yet to accept him.
Gisela chose her words carefully. “My father has business with King Garren. He can bring your request—”
“It’s an order! Not a request!”
“Yes.” Gisela watched the blade press tighter against Elisabette’s skin. The girl had already recoiled as far as she could against the half brother of her beloved. If Rab pressed his blade any closer, she’d be cut.
Gisela tried to soothe him with her words. “Yes, you are right to make this request. Every son has a right to be recognized by his father. Given Garren’s previous reluctance, my father can compel him to do that which he, by rights, ought to have done already.”
As she spoke, Gisela crept slowly closer, studying the Raider’s face. Had his nose not been so crooked, he’d have borne clear resemblance to his father. She didn’t question his claim. “My father will see it done. Now please, hand over the girl.”
“I will keep her as a guarantee until your father does as you have said.”
Gisela closed her eyes and thought. She couldn’t let Rab take Elisabette. She couldn’t imagine the girl would be properly treated. More likely she’d be horribly abused. But at the same time, how was she going to get Elisabette away from the Raider?
There was too much distance between them for her to attempt the use of force, besides the fact that Rab was surrounded by half a dozen armed men, each of them wielding a steady blade. The risk to Elisabette was simply too great. And Gisela feared that if she let Rab walk away with the girl, they would never see her again.
The simple fact was, exhausted though they were, John’s men outnumbered Rab’s. If she was going to get Elisabette back, this was her chance.
She’d have to try to make a trade. But who would the Raider take in exchange for a princess? Gisela had seen no sign of Prince Luke. The only other person of rank was King John himself, and she couldn’t offer him. He was the only one holding Lydia together. There would be no rescue mission without him to lead it.
That left only one person. Gisela lifted her head and looked Rab the Raider in the eyes. “My father does not value this girl. He values me. If you wish to compel him to see through your requests, trade her for me.”
* * *
John listened with an anguished heart as Gisela argued with his father’s murderer. The guttural sounds they exchanged were unfamiliar to him, but he could gather some meaning from the tones they used. As near as he could tell, Gisela was making inroads toward his sister’s release. As long as John thought the Frankish princess had a chance of talking the Raider into letting Elisabette go, he wouldn’t interrupt them.
But at the same time, he glanced warily around at his men who’d gathered near just before the Raider’s appearance, and who had been slowly creeping to more advantageous positions while Rab spoke with Gisela.
His men had fought hard already. For the most part, they hadn’t slept all night. Some of them were wounded. But they were armed, and from the glances they gave him, he knew they lacked only his signal to pounce on Rab and his men.
John watched the Raider carefully and waited for an opening.
To his horror, Gisela stepped toward the man.
Rab barked at her, and she undid the scabbard from her belt, and laid her sword upon the road.
No!
John wanted to scream. Gisela was offering herself in exchange for his sister. No doubt the headstrong woman thought herself strong enough to endure whatever they might do to her. Truly, she was stronger than Elisabette, and far better with a sword. But her sword now lay in the road. She would be defenseless against the merciless barbarians.
He couldn’t let her sacrifice herself.
And yet, unarmed as she now was, and closer to his enemies than his men, if John made any move, she’d likely be killed, and his sister as well.
The Raider’s men tensed around him, alert to any move John or his men might try to make.
But what move could they make? None that wouldn’t endanger the princess further.
Gisela spoke to Rab, her tone instructive.
The man’s blade moved away from Elisabette’s throat.
His arm relaxed from around her.
John watched without blinking. What if the murderer tried to take them both? What if he ran them through and fled? John had watched Rab at work before. Four years before at Bern, King Theodoric had no more than lowered his sword when Rab had slaughtered him.
John couldn’t take that risk with the princesses.
“Take me.” He stepped forward.
Gisela turned to look at him, and Rab’s blade rose again toward Elisabette’s throat.
John could only hope that, however poor the barbarian’s skills at speaking it, Rab understood the Illyrian words with which John pleaded. “Take me. Let them go.”
The Raider said something harsh to Gisela.
“You’re of no value to him,” she explained.
“No value? Then why did he take my brother?”
Gisela didn’t translate, but spoke to John in Latin. “Don’t do this. Lydia needs you on the throne.”
“What does he want?” John asked quickly, hoping to understand enough to help him plan strategically.
“His father is King Garren. He is Warrick’s elder half brother. He wants the king to acknowledge him as his son and heir.”
John absorbed the news, and quickly explained his fears. “You cannot trust him. He killed my father by first convincing him to lower his sword.”
“He would gain nothing by killing me,” Gisela insisted. “He has no reason to let you live. You cannot take my place.”
“You cannot go with him.”
Rab the Raider interrupted them with more angry, guttural words.
Gisela spoke to him in soothing tones.
To John’s horror, Rab began to smile. He looked greedily from John to Gisela and back again before barking out a demand.
“What did he say?” John asked when the woods fell silent.
“He wants us both.”
John let out a slow breath. If he was with Gisela, he could protect her. “Would he let Elisabette go free?”
Gisela spoke to the barbarian, who grunted his response.
“Yes,” Gisela translated, “but he grows wary. He fears he has been kept talking too long. He fears a trap.”
“If only I had some way of laying one,” John muttered in Latin, then addressed the Raider in Illyrian. “I agree. You may have us both. Hand over my sister.”
The Raider barked.
Gisela translated. “Put down your sword.”
John approached slowly, his eyes never leaving his enemy. He addressed him in clear Illyrian. “Lower your blade. Let the girl go free.”
“Put down your sword,” Gisela repeated again as the Raider grew more anxious.
John fingered the clasp that held his scabbard. He’d been inching closer. A good leap would bring him within range to use his weapon on the man. His men would know little of the words that had been exchanged thus far, but they knew him well enough to pounce on any opening he gave them—but he had to get the women clear.
“I will put down my sword when you lower your blade.”
The Raider only tightened his grip. Elisabette’s eyes widened.
“Know that if you hurt her, you will die here in this road.” John used the words common to every Illyrian dialect. The barbarian had to have understood. John watched him weigh his choices.
Another guttural utterance. Gisela translated it. “He will put down his blade as you take off your sword.”
“Fair enough.” John watched the glint of metal move away from against his sister’s neck. He unbuckled his scabbard. With one hand on the hilt, he lowered his sheathed weapon toward the ground.
Rab lowered his hands and allowed Elisabette to take a step away from him.
With a flick of his wrist, John freed his sword from its scabbard. In the same motion he leaped forward and swung his blade between his sister and the Raider, effectively cutting Elisabette off from her captor.
Rab raised a cry. Immediately Illyrians leaped from the woods, their swords raised.
Just as quickly, John’s men leaped to meet them. John heaved his sword at the Raider’s chest while pushing Elisabette toward Gisela with his other arm.
Rab leaped back, and John’s thrust glanced off his chain mail.
In the time it took John to look back to be certain his sister and Gisela were safely out of harm’s way, Rab shuffled back, and John’s men pounced to fill the gap between them. With shouts and the clang of blade on blade, they fought the Illyrians back until they fled down the road.
The weary men did not give chase very far.
John didn’t blame them. He buckled his scabbard back into place and resheathed his sword, knowing well he might have to draw it again at any moment. Then he quickly pulled his trembling little sister into his arms, and met Gisela’s eyes over her head. He’d have loved to hold her just as tightly, but he’d taken enough risks that day.
“Thank you,” he whispered, a thousand times more weary now that his fear began to ebb away. They stumbled toward the inn, where John’s men quickly met up with them. “The princesses must be escorted back to the safety of Castlehead.”
“I’m too tired to move,” Elisabette protested.
“Then rest here. We’ll post a heavy guard. Luke is in no condition to be moved, either.” John eyed his sister. “How many men did the Raider have with him?”
“Dozens,” Elisabette answered. “I stumbled upon them looking for you.”
John still didn’t understand why she’d come looking for him, but he was far too exhausted to delve into the matter. “He won’t attack again, not without reinforcements. We must rest.”
With Luke lying wounded in one private room of the Millbridge Inn, John assigned the other to the princesses. He lingered to speak with Gisela as Elisabette flopped wearily onto a mattress.
John pulled Gisela into his embrace and ran his fingers back over her golden hair. “I would not have let you sacrifice yourself.”
“The Raider is the half brother of my betrothed. Would I have been any worse off with him than I would have been had I reached Garren’s household by now?”
John closed his eyes and breathed in the gentle scent of roses that clung to her in spite of the ardors of the morning. Her words pierced through the lies he’d been telling himself. He’d thought she would be safe in the castle of his neighboring king. But having been faced with the prospect of losing her to her fiancé’s half brother, he questioned whether his presumption was correct.
Would she have been better off if she’d gone on to her betrothed weeks before?
He could no longer answer that question with any certainty. “I don’t know how I can ever let you go.” Her hair surrounded them both like a golden cloak as he pulled her tighter against him, feeling the reassurance of her presence close to him—for now.
“I need to rest,” Gisela admitted. “We both do. It’s been a long night, and I expect the day will hold unpleasant surprises. We’d best not meet them so exhausted.”
“You are right. I must go.”
John pulled himself away and found a mattress beside his brother’s bed, and collapsed into sleep without even removing his sword.
* * *
That afternoon, the women were sent under heavy guard toward Sardis. John remained at his brother’s side, praying for his recovery. Luke’s injury appeared to be healing without infection and his delirium had ended, but he was still too weak to travel.
And he spoke of alarming news.