Eliza Knight - The Rules of Chivalry (25 page)

He cursed as she connected with something, she guessed a finger for it felt slight, and before she could kick again he had her ankles tied tight.

“Try to kick or hit me now, wench.” His voice was full of disdain and mockery. He was enjoying this too much. When she was free she’d make certain he suffered for all he put her through and then some for having betrayed Michael’s trust.

“Still have nothing to stay. Oh, well, then. I’ve been waiting a really long time for this.”

He slid his hands up over her thighs, under her skirts and gripped her bare buttocks. Cold air hit her naked flesh. She jerked her hips to the right to get away from his disgusting touch.

“I do like my women to fight me, so
aye
, by all means fight, madam.”

Jon’s
words made her dizzy with nausea. He liked it. He collapsed on top of her again, his member hard through his
breeches
as he ground it against her buttocks.
Elena
squeezed her eyes closed. As much as she’d wanted to fight him, she was at a loss for what to do. He’d won. He would rape her, probably repeatedly. She could forge through it.
There was no other choice.
She was strong. She repeated the words to herself again and again, just as she did when Kent had his brutal way with her.

Elena
took steadying breaths and forced herself into a secret place deep within her mind so that she did not have to
be present for what would happen next. It was inevitably going to take place. He was already fumbling with his
breeches
behind her.

A waft of air flowed over her face as the door burst open. An outraged roar filled the room. Jon som
ehow managed to push off of her
to standing; a feat she hoped brought his broken leg much pain.

Elena
blinked open her eyes, trying to see who it was that had found her, and at the same time futilely trying to cover her bare buttocks with her tied hands. There was something vaguely familiar about the bearded warrior, but she could not place him. She instead thanked God for his presence, and rolled from side to side, shimming her gown back over her hips until the warmth of the fabric covered her. Using sheer force of will, she inched her way to her knees, and then onto her buttocks, she scooted into a corner.

“Who the hell are you?” Jon barked.

The tall, broad man assessed her assailant with eyes filled with disgust as the hall thundered with a thousand footsteps behind him. “I am Lord Richard.”

“The wench is mine,
Richard
,
you’ll have to find another.”

A cruel smile covered Richard’s face, and relief flood
ed
Elena with such acute wonder that she felt euphoric from it. Her brother had come. He was here to save her.
But even knowing that, her hands shook.
How many people had she trusted that would turn on her? What if Colin and Fletch were also Michael’s enemies? He was with them now in France. Was he still alive?

“Well, mongrel, unfortunately, that is not going to happen. You see, Elena is my sister, and I
am not in the habit of letting bastards
take advantage of my blood.”

Elena watched with pleasure as the color drained from Jon’s face.

“Yo-yo-your sister?”
Jon stammered.

Richard’s smile widened showing white teeth and incisors that reminded her of a wolf. He pulled his sword from his scabbard with deliberate slowness, letting the scrape of the metal fill the air and send chills down his opponent’s spine. “
Aye,
and I’ve come to claim her.”

With that, Richard swung his sword in an arch, cutting through Jon like he was a slab of butter. The squire fell to the ground in a heap. Elena refused to look at him, kept her eyes on her brother.

“Richard,” she breathed, her bloodied lips trembling.

He rushed forward, kneeling in front of her and cut through the ties at her ankles and wrists.

“Hush, love.
I’ve come to take you home.”

A mixture of hope and pain filled her chest.
“To Ireland?”

“Aye, to Ireland.”

Chapter Twenty-T
wo

“S
ir!
Captain Devereux!”

Michael slowed his mount and twisted in the saddle to see a knight barreling toward him on horseback, arms waving as he shouted out for Michael’s attention.

He narrowed his eyes, taking in his surroundings. It was quiet, slightly overcast. There was no one else on the road, and he didn’t see any metal glinting from
the trees to indicate an army
waited. Were they just well hidden? Was it an ambush?

He shook his head, narrowing his eyes on the rider. No ambush.
’
Twas not possible.
He wouldn’t allow it. He was on his way back to England. They’d won, and now they were leaving. His retainers slowed, some of them drawing their swords, the metal scraping against their scabbards.

“Halt!” Michael shouted, holding up his hand, when the man was a short distance away.

The knight pulled tight on his reins and stopped, taking in the men with swords drawn with a weary glance.

“Captain, I come with news.”

On closer inspection, Michael noted the man wore Alexander, Lord
Hardwyck’s
colors. He could be trusted.

“What news?” Michael sliced the air with his hand, indicating for his men to sheath their swords. The messenger swallowed visibly in relief.

“My lord has sent me with a message.” The knight cleared his throat. “He overheard your overlord boasting of leaving France early, to return home and reunite with his wife.”

“What more was said?” Michael tried to act as though this news did not affect him, even though fear and revulsion warred within him.

“He’s gone to collect her from the convent, and then apparently to dole out a punishment for having left him.”

He refused to let the news affect him. Little good it would do to lose confidence now. “How long ago did he depart?”

“A fortnight, sir.”

Damn
! Kent’s men were already two weeks ahead. The bastard was probably on a ship already, maybe even having already
landed in England. Kent took his time while traveling. Leaving early would make him feel confident that Michael couldn’t stand in his way.

Michael and his retainers would have to hurry. There would probably be no catching up to Kent, but at least they could be right on his heels.

*****

“We might want to break camp here, sir,” Colin said, giving Michael a weary look.

They’d ridden hard through the French countryside, barely stopping to rest the horses or even to take necessary breaks to relieve themselves. But he didn’t want to stop.
Michael w
anted to go. He wanted to ride his horse hard until he reached the coast and then harder when the
y
landed in England. But that was impossible, and he’d end up killing his mighty stead if he didn’t slow down.

He slowed Black, who snorted through his frothy lips. God, what if he didn’t get there in
time,
and Kent
did something to hurt Elena
? At least he’d left Jon there. Even with a broken leg his man would fight to the death to protect Elena. He took solace in that. She at least had some measure of protection.

“Sir?”

He’d have to be happy with that thought. And pray she was all right.

“
Aye, we’ll make
camp for the night.”

The men sighed audibly, and the horses too. Everyone
was pleased to slow the pace he’d set. Men walked stiffly around the camp, building up fires as the sun set, and tossing blankets on the ground. No one bothered to set up tents knowing Michael would want to break camp down at dawn. No one
hunted,
instead they ate what provisions they’d packed.

Michael shoved a tasteless, stale oatcake into his mouth and washed it down with bitter ale from a skin Colin handed him.

“She will be all right. She will be protected in the abbey. They have orders not to let the Earl inside.” Colin sat down beside him, wincing at his own bite of oatcake.

Michael looked up at the sky, surprisingly clear and innocent for all the bloodshed they’d just heaped on the French and the twisted situation he was returning to.

“They may have orders, but he is the Earl. They won’t stand for long if he orders them to open the gates.” He sighed and shook his head. “Besides, Elena would rather offer up herself then see anyone harmed, and you know Kent’s approach. He’ll attack the abbey to get what he wants, no matter that it is a house of God.”

“We will be there before it gets to that point.”

Michael nodded, not knowing what else to say. Colin was only trying to console him, and he wasn’t sure that was possible. Not with the horrors he imagined Kent would play out on fair Elena.

Colin lay down on his woolen blanket and turned away from Michael. His loyal companion was snoring within seconds.

Michael lay back on his own blanket, tucking his aching arms behind his head. He wasn’t tired mentally. Physically his body shouted for slumber, but inside his head, his thoughts raced. He was too worried to sleep.

What would they do once they did reach England? He couldn’t very well protect her and return to Kent’s service.
The best thing would be to take her to Ireland just as he’d said he wished to do from the beginning. But he had no title, no lands, he wasn’t wealthy, and neither of their families would welcome them with open arms.
Could their love withstand being poor, perhaps working the land for sustenance and a roof over their heads
?
Surely he could find a small bit of land to purchase, even offer up his skills as a knight to a local overlord—if the man had no idea who they were.

Unlikely.
It appeared their future would be bleak.

But anything was better than leaving her where she was. He simply could not do that. He wouldn’t.

They’d just have to find a
way. Then it hit him. He had a solid ally in both Thomas and Alexander—both earls. Either of them would be happy to offer him a place in service, and then Elena could also be around another lady—she wouldn’t have to suffer. She could live the life she deserved. Then again…she was another man’s wife.

The king would be unhappy. But with recommendations from Thomas and Alexander, mayhap the king would agree it was best to annul Elena’s marriage and let her cleave to Michael.
They
could even petition the annulment on the basis of their hand-fasting. He loved he
r; he
would not let her suffer any longer. He couldn’t stand to watch her with Kent. Couldn’t stand the thought of her bearing anymore
pain.

Feeling somewhat like he’d come to a good conclusion, Michael allowed himself to drift off.

Shouts and the stomping of feet and hooves startled Michael from a deep sleep. He sat straight up on his makeshift bed, and blinked his eyes rapidly to adjust to his surroundings. What was happening? Why were there men running to and fro? Horses! He rolled to the right in just enough time not to be trampled by a
riderless
horse.

Utter chaos. Someone had kicked a log from the fire, and smoke mixed with fog making the air swirl thick. Fire
leapt from dead leaves and dry grass, spreading quickly. Men shouted, and threw their blankets over the flames. Horses screamed, their feet dancing in a myriad of directions to get away from the fire and running men. The animals nipped and bucked until they broke free of the chaos, leaving the men in the churn of smoky air.

“Sir!”
Colin grasped his arm. “An ambush—I think.”

Michael stared at him. This was no ambush. No one was fighting, they were all running mad. Running away—but from what?

Dawn had barely broken. The silvery full moon still shone above, with orange fingers of light from the rising sun reaching out to grasp the pearl of the night, sinking her into glorious daylight. But this was no glorious day. Something was horribly wrong.

“Settle the men, make sure everyone is well,” Michael ordered. Colin rushed off shouting at the men to assemble.

Michael grasped the reins of a horse as it blew by, pulling the animal to a stop. Feral eyes glared at him, but Michael stood firm, daring the animal to kick at him or bite him. Soon the horse calmed, even nuzzled Michael’s arm. He soothed the horse with whispered words.

“Where is your rider?”

A young man sped past, his barefoot feet singeing on the burning grass and he hopped from foot to foot howling.

With his free hand, Michael grasped the boy, turning him to face him. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen summers. And he was not from Michael’s camp. “Where did you come from?”

The boy opened his mouth and gasped for breath, but no words came out. Michael shook him gently.

“I asked you a question.”

He held out a shaky arm and pointed westward. The direction they would have been headed come morning.

“From where?
Who is your master?”

“Lo—Lo—Lord Kent, sir.”

Michael’s eyes widened. “Where is he?”

The boy’s face paled, his lips trembled. He shook his head. “I know not.
’
Tis believed he escaped, but not the rest of us.”

“Escaped what? What has happened?”

“We held camp just beyond here. We’d been there awhile, a sennight mayhap. The earl was carrying on with the locals. Taking their ale, eating the
ir meat, and he—he—he was with…
their women.”

“Raping and pillaging?”

The boy nodded. Michael could have murdered Kent if he were in front of him. The bastard had broken the rules of chivalry! Not that he’d ever followed them to begin with
.
But the men Kent had taken with him were loyal to the bastard—and lechers. They would all have reveled in a week of rape and mayhem.

Some men could not be turned to Michael’s side, and that was evident now.

“Who attacked your camp?”

“Someone from the village must have gone off to tell the French soldiers what was happening. They attacked just an hour or so ago.” The boy had stopped shaking by now, to Michael’s relief.

“Have they followed?”

“I don’t know, sir, but you and your men won’t be safe if they did. One Englishman is just as bad as the next to the French.”

Michael nodded and let the boy go. He quickly vanished into the smoky fog as if he’d never really existed. Michael put his fingers to his lips and blew a loud whistle. His men quickly gathered before him, not looking worse for wear. By now most of the people running from the massacre of Kent’s entourage had either settled or disappeared.

“We must leave now. I have word that the French may
be marching on us now.
We must get to the coast and away from
this Godforsaken land.”

His men wasted no time in readying the horses and packing up their belongings. Within minutes they were on their way to England—and to Elena.

*****

Setting a grueling pace and hounding the captain of their ship, Michael and his men made it back to England presumably before Kent, since no one at port seemed to remember him landing. A shock to be
sure,
and most assuredly pure luck. If Kent hadn’t landed already, he would within the next day or two.

They’d barely touched ground before he swung his body into the saddle and set a rough pace toward the abbey. By the time they arrived his men no longer looked like English knights, but a band of vagabonds. They were covered in dirt, swea
t, their faces filled out with several
week’s
worth
of facial hair and their clothes covered in stains.

They were so
unrecognizable,
the friar would not open the gates to them at first.

But what was most disturbing was the frightened look that crossed both the Abbot and the Friar’s face when Michael and his men rode into the center of the abbey courtyard.

“Sir Devereux,” Abbot
Hunsden
said, bowing his head, and not so much in deference—for he held authority over Michael being a man of God—but in fear for what his eyes might reveal.

A twinge of fear snaked its way through Michael. He glanced around quickly, taking in the men of God, and not one noble servant. Where was Elena?

“What has happened?”

“Mu—much,” the abbot stammered. “We had best talk in private.” The little man turned and hurried through the courtyard to his private house with Michael fast on his heels.

When they entered the small, dark room, the abbot lit a
single tallow candle, the smoke of which rose up to offend Michael’s nose.

“There is much I must tell you. Much that has happened. Mostly
bad, but in the end there is
some relief.” The Abbott shifted and held out his arm indicating for Michael to take a seat.