Chained (Chained Trilogy) (4 page)

A woman came into view, her bare feet splashing in the stream as she ran, slipping over the rocks and clutching the skirt of her kirtle. Wide eyes filled with fright were set in a dark face with sloping lines and high cheekbones—the signature of Dinasdalian features. Behind her, four men on horseback pursued, shrouded in black. They shouted at the woman as they rode her down, their intent apparent. The woman slipped, splashing into the stream a
nd falling face first upon the rocks. Still, even when the men drew up their horses and dismounted, she crawled, panting heavily as she tried to escape. One of the men laughed as he stalked her slowly, his booted footsteps sure when he splashed into the stream.

“Now, now, lovey,” he crooned, his voice soft yet edged with a quiet malice. “There’s no need to go running off.”

“Aye,” joined the second one, a man as wide as he was large. “Be still and don’t fight, and perhaps you’ll even enjoy us.” He laughed again, a sound both menacing and taunting.

The woman shrieked
once more as she struggled to her feet, her slender fingers clutched around a large stone. The first man paused, one hand on the hilt of his shortsword. “Now, lovey,” he said, his voice losing its sweetness and growing cold like the edge of a blade. “You don’t want to be doing that.”

“No,” said the third man, uncoiling a whip from his side, his wicked smile showcasing a row of yellowed and rotting teeth, “you most certainly don’t. Let that rock fly and I’ll tear your back open before I make you lay on it and spread those pretty legs.”

“Please,” the woman whispered, clutching the rock tightly. Her knuckles were scraped and bleeding from her fall, and her dark hair was soaked, hanging in her eyes. “Leave me be, I want no trouble. Just let me go.”

“Aye, we’ll let you go,” said the first man,
taking a step toward the woman, his hand never leaving the hilt of his shortsword. “Soon as we’re done, and only if you’re a good girl. Are you a good girl, lovey?”

The woman grunted, hurling the stone
before turning to flee. The stone connected with the first man’s head, causing him to bellow his rage and begin pursuing her once more. Deciding that she’d seen more than enough, Gwen quickly stood and notched the arrow to her bow once more. Maintaining her hidden position between the trees, she let the first arrow fly. It whispered through the air swiftly before impaling the first man’s wrist and knocking the shortsword from his hand. He screamed in agony as the arrow embedded itself into a nearby tree, imprisoning him there by his arm. As he struggled to remove the deeply embedded arrow, the other three ignored their prey to search for the source of the arrow.

“Who goes there?” bellowed the largest man, drawing a broadsword from its scabbard
at his back and turning slowly in a circle, searching the tangle of trees and brush around him. “Show your face, you coward!”

“Oh, call me a coward, will you?” Gwen shouted from her hiding place, slowly slinking from behind the tree and slipping further into the wood. “Yet you hunt down innocent women for sport
because no other will have you!”

Eyes narrowed, the large man followed the sound of her voice, crouching as he stalked forward, searching for her through the veil of lea
ves surrounding him. “’Tis a woman,” he said to his companions, his smile widening. “I’ll find you, you interfering bitch!” he called out to her. “And when I do, you’ll take the place of the cunt you chased off!”

Gwen’s jaw clenched as she gripped the low hanging branch of a nearby tree, swinging herself up onto it before quickly scrambling to the next one and the next. Once she was high enough, she simply sat and waited, straddling the branch with her longbow in hand. As the three men came into view, Gwen slid another arrow from the quiver at her side and notched it to her bow, taking aim once more. She swiftly let loose with a volley of arrows, notching and firing four of them so rapidly the men on the ground hardly had time to register that they were being attacked before it was too late. Gwen paused, a fifth arrow notched as she surveyed the damage. The man with the whip lay dead, two arrows through his chest, and the fourth—who’d remained silent as his friends terrorized that poor woman—sat propped against a tree with the shaft of an arrow embedded in his throat.

Only the large man remained, turning swiftly in circles and searching the trees. “Show yourself!” he bellowed, his voice laced with terror. “Come down here and face me!”

Deciding to oblige him, Gwen climbed nimbly down from her perch and dropped to her feet on the ground just behind the large brute. At the s
ound, he swiveled, prepared to strike with his broadsword, but was brought up short by the tip of an arrow pressed to his throat. Gwen held the bow before her, her fingers drawn back on the string. Though he was several inches taller than she, the angle at which she held the arrow ensured that he’d be killed the instant she released. He dropped his sword and swallowed, the bobbing of the bulge in his throat causing the arrow to prick his skin. Blood welled and trickled down into the collar of his doublet.

“Here I am,” Gwen said, glaring up at him.

“There you are,” he hissed, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he wished to strangle the life from her. “Consider yourself fortunate to have that bow,” he growled, his nostrils flaring. “Without it, you’re just another useless woman. It doesn’t make us equals, and it doesn’t make you stronger. If you can’t kill me with that arrow, you can be sure I’ll tear you limb from limb with my bare hands.”

Gwen lifted her chin a regal inch and drew back on the bow’s string. “You are right,” she said imperiously. “It does not make us equals. Nothing can do that, for I am far better than you can ever hope to be. You dare to attempt rape and murder on my father’s lands, and for that you will suffer the consequences.”

He spat, and the offending spittle found her cheek, dribbling down toward her neck. Gwen fumed, but did not flinch. “Fuck you,” he ground out from between clenched teeth. “And fuck your bloody father.”

“In the name of Lord Clarion Toustain, High Lord of Dinasdale and Warden of the North,” she began, ignoring the
spittle running down her cheek, “I hereby sentence you to death. May the gods find cause to torture your wretched soul for all eternity.”

With that, she released the arrow, her jaw c
lenching in grim satisfaction when it pierced his neck and disappeared beneath the line of his jaw. The large man fell to his knees, gurgling as blood spilled from his mouth and stained his bushy beard. With a snarl, Gwen placed her foot on the man’s chest and pushed, toppling him over onto his side. She swiped at her cheek with the sleeve of her kirtle, shuddering as she mopped the dead man’s saliva from her face and neck.

Moving from body to body to retrieve her arrows, Gwen studied each man more closely. They dressed plainly, in black gambesons, and leather breeches and boots, though they were without armor or adornment. She knelt beside the last body, frowning as silver winked at her from the grass beside him. It was a pin, she realized, her eyes widening as she lifted it and used her thumb to wipe the mud from its surface.

“The mountain of Maignart,” she whispered, staring down at the brown enameled pin that had fallen from the man’s
gambeson. Her fingers closed around the brooch as she stood, slipping it into the small pouch at her hip. There, amongst the herbs she’d been gathering, the pin would remain until the opportune time. To show it to her brothers now would cause them to fly into a blind rage, as men were wont to do when faced with such evidence. Her brothers were the worst when it came to such behavior, and this required a delicacy that was unknown to them.

Once she’d retrieved her arrow
s, she reached for the ivory horn hanging over her shoulder and blew, one long, high note to alert the rest of their hunting party. Gwen had been separated from them far too long, and she knew they’d be worried. Besides, she needed someone to dispose of the bodies for her. An answering horn blast called back to her, and Gwen countered their call with another of her own. It continued, the concert of horns, until the answering notes grew closer. Then, her four brothers came thundering into the clearing, surrounded by pages, squires, and a handful of knights. Evrain, the eldest, led them as he rushed forward, his wide eyes filled with worry at the sight of her, blood staining her surcoat and sleeves of her kirtle.

“
Gwendolyn!” he cried, grasping her arms and looking her over from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Of course not, let me go.” She shrugged from his hold and swept her arm out over the dead men littering the ground around her. “As you can see, I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

Evrain frowned as he surveyed her kills. “We hunt for boar and quail, our sister hunts men. How very appropriate.”

Gwen wrinkled her nose at him. “Rapists,” she argued. “I caught them terrorizing a woman who had no one to defend her.”

“And you thought to be her champion?” questioned Leofred, the second-born son of Lord Clarion. “Gods, Gwen, you are a foolish woman,” he muttered as he swept past her, kneeling to inspect the nearest body. “Foolish, but a bloody good shot.”

“Call me what you will,”
she retorted, “but I was the only here to come to that woman’s aid.”

“Aye, you did well,” Evrain said grudgingly. “Though, I could argue that you would never have been in such a position had you not wandered off from the rest of the party. Come, let us return to camp. We will sup first before returning to Seahaven. This hunt is over.”

Gwen could not agree more. Though her shoulders remained squared and her chin high, she was inwardly shaken by what she had seen and done. She wanted nothing more than to retreat behind the walls of the castle, although before she’d been delighted to be free of it. The whole thing had left a sour taste in her mouth.

Leofred turned to Sir Brennius Hewse, a knight of her father’s house. “Sir Brennius, see to the burial of these maggots, and then rejoin us at camp.”

Sir Brennius inclined his head. “Aye, milord.” Turning to two squires, he bellowed, “You heard him. Get to work!”

As the young squires set to the task of the burial ben
eath Sir Brennius’ watchful eye, Gwen fell into the circle of her brothers’ tall, broad bodies, and followed them back toward camp. Standing around her, they were are as large and strong as the trees of the wood. The elder three were the image of their father, Lord Clarion. Broad and thick with skin dark as ebony, and jaws strong and sharp; their dark eyes were hooded by equally dark brows and set in faces that were pleasing to the eye. The youngest, Jorin, was more akin to Gwen and their mother, Lady Enid, in looks. Though their skin was dark—as were all Dinasdalians—they were a few shades lighter than their brothers, with eyes the color of chestnuts. Jorin was long and lean, sinewy where his elder brothers were brawny, and fine-featured like Gwen.

They dressed richly
and adorned themselves with silver, as was the fashion among the nobles of Dinasdale. Great, silver rings flashed at Evrain’s knuckles, and a large chain of linked silver discs draped him shoulder to shoulder, a large silver archer pendant resting against his chest. Silver buttons in the shape of archers ran down the front of Leofred’s jerkin, and the pommel of his sword was an ornate silver archer with sapphires for eyes. Achart was the only one of the four who wore a beard, and he’d adorned it with silver rings, dividing it into four forks that hung down to his chest and clinked gently when he moved. His left ear was pierced four times, and in each hole he wore a sapphire set in silver. Jorin was more simply adorned, with only one ring, a ruby in his left ear, and a gleaming silver archer on the buckle of his belt. They wore their hair long and braided, adorned with silver and glass beads in shades of blue—cerulean, turquoise, and cobalt. Only Jorin wore his unbraided; it fell down to his shoulders in a cascade of lovely, dark waves, held back from his face with a leather thong.

His hand found hers as they walked. “I think what you did was very brave,” he whispered.

Gwen smiled at her younger brother and lifted his hand to kiss the knuckles affectionately. “Thank you, Jory,” she said, using the pet name her mother had given him. Of the four of them, Jorin was closest to her. Only ten and four years of age, he was becoming a man before her very eyes. Soon, he would leave to be fostered at Vor’shy. Though she knew it was necessary—her own brothers had left for years at a time to foster at other castles—she was going to miss Jorin sorely.

They arrived at camp moments later, and were greeted by servants who had remained beneath the large, erected
canopy to prepare a late luncheon. Beneath the canopy was set a table large enough for ten with rough, wooden chairs. A fire burned a few yards away, where several of her brothers’ quail had been roasted over the flames. Gathered around the fire were another group of knights, pages, and squires, who nibbled on quail and crusts of bread, grease running down their fingers as they guzzled ale from pewter mugs.

In the shade of the
pavilion, Gwen crossed to one of the servants, who stood holding a bowl of fresh water. She washed her hands clean of dirt and blood before drying them. Holding her arms out to Achart, she implored him to cut the sleeves of her kirtle away with his dagger.

“I do not wish to eat
with the blood of those bastards dripping onto my plate,” she said. He obliged her, ripping through the sleeves of her gown with his sharp knife.