Forbidden (40 page)

Ranald pushed harder, following the tracks
left by Sir Giric’s and six other horses. Soon after the sun of the
new day reached the noon hour, Ranald saw what near made him howl
with fear. The ground showed where horsemen left the woods to the
left and followed them.

Before the sun started to dip, they came upon
Sir Giric. And his men. From the looks of it, they had fought long
and hard. They had taken many more with them than they themselves
numbered. Ranald and his men searched the carnage, frantically
grabbing fallen men and turning their faces upward, seeking Baron
Rupert. His body was not amongst them. Sir Kerr, his face white,
gently carried Sir Giric’s body and laid it beside the Raptor
bodies on a grassy clearing. Once Ranald found the women, he would
send men to bury them.

“Ranald!” Raik called from the path on the
other side of the dead men. “Mayhap Giric and his men doubled back
to meet Rupert. Ahead are more tracks. Further on, they dinna lead
back to Rupert’s.”

They threw themselves on their mounts and
followed the road for at least a league, where they saw evidence of
another stop. Not ten steps on the other side of it, Ranald spied a
small bundle beside a tree. He recognized one of the bairn’s
blanket, for he had watched Catalin sew its seams one night not
long past. Tied tightly within was baby clothing. His chest ached
so much he could barely draw breath. He closed his eyes and crushed
the bundle to his chest. It neither stilled the terrible pain
there, nor quieted the rage that near boiled the blood in his
veins.

He saw where two horses had followed close to
the tree lines. One horse carried two, from the look of the prints.
Heavier riders had kept to the path.

Someone had pursued the women.

He shoved the bairn’s clothing beneath his
hauberk. No need now to study the ground, for no bushes or trees
appeared disturbed beside the road. Suddenly, something crashed and
thrashed through the trees to their left. The resounding calls of a
distressed horse spurred them toward it. There in a thickly wooden
area, a massive brown warhorse fought to free itself. A body wedged
between two trees held it tight.

How in heaven’s name had it gotten there?
Ranald could only guess the terrified horse had fought so mightily
to rid itself of the body hanging by the stirrup that it had
reared, tossing the corpse high. It had landed, wedged between the
trees. The horse reared again then lunged forward. A pop and a
sickening wet sound followed as the leg ripped away from the
corpse. Raik grabbed the flying reins and fought the horse, until
Dubne grabbed the bridle and pulled its head down.

“Follow us once ye have freed it,” Ranald
shouted as he led Satan’s Spawn through the trees and back onto the
road. He didn’t envy Raik’s squire having to remove the mangled leg
from the stirrup. The corpse was not one of their own, for a quick
scan of the area had shown fragments of Baron Rupert’s colors.

They raced ahead until they burst out of the
wood at the top of the hill. He brought Satan’s Spawn to a halt and
studied the valley below. In the distance stood the gleaming white
walls of the Convent.

Milling the ground in front of it was Baron
Rupert and his men. He quickly counted thirty men plus Rupert.

Hmm. One man for each of the squires. The
seasoned warriors would take two or three. He would handle
four.

Baron Rupert belonged to him.

He had a promise to fulfill.

His lips quivered and lifted at the corners,
baring his teeth. A growl rumbled from his stomach, up through his
chest and gained sound as it left his lips. He nodded. Pleased.

‘Twould be a fair fight.

Catalin spooned broth past Muriele’s
scratched lips. She flinched seeing her in such pain. Not many
places on the woman’s body were clear of scrapes, cuts and
bruises.

Hearing sounds of scurrying women and the
bell atop the gate, Elyne had gone to see what was happening. She
hurtled into the room, gasping for breath. Horror contorted her
face, making Catalin’s skin crawl with fear.

“Baron Rupert camps outside the gates. Mother
Cecelia denied him entrance. Thank the good Lord the monks agreed.
Lofty-nosed Brother Hugo is new to the area and is a returned
Crusader. He brought an injured knight to Kelso and was on his way
back to King Stephen. He offered to hear the good sisters’
confessions. Brothers Norbert and Clement abide at Kelso.”

Muriele held up a bruised hand. “Are you sure
it is Baron Rupert, and not, some, uh, Highlander who crossed the
borders?” She swallowed and her lovely blue eyes clouded over with
terror.

“Nay, I have no doubt ‘tis Rupert. A red ‘R’
is emblazoned on their tunics.”

Why, Muriele’s face lost some of its fear.
How strange. Who could be more feared than Rupert? Catalin stared
at the wall, for something about the last two days seemed familiar,
like she should know of it. She turned on the stool, the better to
see Elyne’s face.

“How many men does the baron have with him?”
She held her breath awaiting the answer.

“Thirty. I counted myself.” Elyne’s brows
raised, her eyes questioning. Slowly, their expressions changed.
Catalin knew she, too, remembered her dream of not too long
ago.

“That pox-riddled Lucifer! Why did my most
fearsome dream have to come true?” Elyne shouted.

She fisted her hands and waved them in the
air. Spying the other stool close-by, she kicked out at it. It
crashed against the wall. Eyes blazing in anger, she looked around,
searching. She snatched a pitcher of water and raised it high, then
stopped and lowered it, shamefaced. Carefully, she set it back on
the table.

“Uh, what dreams?” Interest wiped the fear
from Muriele’s eyes.

“Elyne sometimes has seeing dreams,” Catalin
murmured low.

“Stupid dreams is what I call them,” Elyne
spluttered and rolled her eyes in disgust at the ceiling. “They are
cause for more mirth than anything else. But this one terrible
dream is happening now.”

“Mayhap it is only slightly alike?” Muriele
looked hopeful.

“Nay. A knight and his men were taking us to
King Stephen, but someone chased us.”

“Well, now, that is different. I believe Sir
Giric meant to take us elsewhere.” Muriele nodded.

“Aye, but he brought us to a secluded place.
Much like this convent. And thirty knights led by a scar-faced man
threatened to besiege the convent.” Elyne stopped to take a deep
breath.

“Hm, would that not be Sir Ranald?” Muriele
quirked her brows.

“Nay. He hovered overhead as an eagle big as
a man...” Elyne gulped and looked at Catalin. “Our only chance will
be if that part of the dream stays the same.”

“Baron Rupert’s threats become more dreadful
each time he opens his mouth.”

Catalin stood on the narrow outer wall’s
walkway surrounding the convent and cautiously peeked around a
merlon.

Unlike a castle’s battlements, these merlons
were set close together. They had built the battlements more for
appearances sake, for a convent should have no need of such
protection.

“After the way Brother Hugo lectured us,
never did I think to admire him. He seems fearless. Brother Norbert
looks uneasy handling a sword.” Catalin said in a quiet voice.

“Brother Clement recently took his final
vows. He says he learned to wield a sword under their last
Protector.” Elyne crooked her finger for Catalin to lean close. “He
near sang Ranald’s praises. I didna tell him the Protector was my
brother and yer husband.”

Catalin turned her head to smile at Elyne.
Seeing something from the corner of her eye, she jerked her head
back to peer through the opening.

“Look! Something black flashed atop the hill
where we came down.”

Elyne leaned close to gaze over Catalin’s
head. “Aye. Saints help us! I hope it’s not more of Rupert’s
men.”

They held their breath as they watched what
looked like a column of ants, two abreast, coming down the hill.
They were not the only ones interested.

Rupert’s men shouted and pointed behind them,
fear ringing out in their voices.

When the baron turned and spied the advancing
horsemen, he stared, frozen. The riders galloped toward them, the
chain mail on their hauberks glinting in the sun. Only the leader
wore a black cloak. The wind played with the edges, lifting it in
the air.

Baron Rupert cursed and drew his sword,
laying it flat out against the backs of the unfortunate men who
were close. They formed two half-circles, ten men each, between
Rupert and the advancing warriors, and one half-circle behind
him.

Catalin gasped. For truth, the feared
predator galloping toward them, his black cape spread like wings
gave life to the name Black Raptor. She held her breath watching
Ranald charging forward as if he flew. His men behind him formed an
ever-widening arrowhead as they charged on the wind. They looked
like giant birds of prey flying behind their leader.

The three monks watched over the gate, no
doubt waiting to see if Rupert greeted the advancing men as friend
or foe.

They didn’t have long to wait.

Before Catalin could brace herself not to
flinch, the clash of a joined battle rang in her ears. Never had
she witnessed fighting to the death so close to hand. The noise was
deafening, steel striking steel, steel striking shields, men
screaming and warhorses stomping and trumpeting.

All were sounds more ominous than the
thudding of catapults or trebuchets, for it was men joined
together.

She jammed her knuckles between her teeth to
keep from crying out. Raptor’s horsemen attacked the outer rings
guarding Rupert, close enough now that she could make out the
knights Kerr, the courtly Fergus, Dougald, the near-giant Dubne,
Brodie, Duncan and Cormac.

Ranald’s presence was unmistakable.

“Jesu! Look behind them.” Elyne pointed at
three specs gathering size as they raced toward the Raptor
warrior’s backs. “Raik and another! But why are they only now
coming, and why do two horses with empty saddles follow Raik?”

“Is that not the lout’s horse that pulled him
and Muriele away? And Muriele’s
borrowed
mount? How
strange! They follow Raik like dogs after their master.” Hearing a
deep voice scream, Catalin hugged her belly and returned her gaze
below.

Thank the blessed Saints! Ranald forged
ahead, his aim easy to see. Only fools engaged him. Those that did
soon fell. Two of Rupert’s men bolted away. They might as well have
stayed and fought, for they did not see Raik until too late.

Why had she not noticed the gates opening?
Brother Hugo and the one called Clement rode out. The gate slammed
tight behind them. There were no protective circles now. Every man
had an opponent. Catalin could no longer tell friend from foe. When
she thought she could stand no more, the fighting decreased until
only Baron Rupert and Brother Clement faced each other.

Ranald and Raptor’s men surrounded them and
held back as they watched Brother Clement battle the baron. When
Rupert’s sword flew to land in the dirt in front of Satan’s Spawn,
all motion stopped.

“Rupert, do ye recognize yer opponent?”
Ranald’s voice rang out. “The monk who bested ye is a man ye once
tortured. Brother Clement? I would have ye stand back now. Ye have
taken vows at Kelso. Dinna stain yer soul with his death. I made a
promise to this instrument of Satan’s that I’m sure he remembers. I
intend to fulfill it now.”

Clement nodded and backed his horse to stand
beside Satan’s Spawn.

“Shite-eating coward! Ye would kill an
unarmed man?”

Rupert’s spittle flew with his shouted
words.

Ranald ignored him. He thrust his sword into
its scabbard, freeing his hands. He unfastened his cape and dropped
it to the ground beside his horse. With slow, precise movements,
Ranald removed his helmet and let it fall onto the cape. His blood
splattered face was bare for all to see.

“Take off yer helm,” he ordered Rupert. When
he did not move, Ranald added, “Ye wish the tip of my sword to do
it for ye?” He shrugged. “Ye will likely lose yer nose.”

Ranald leisurely swung down from Satan’s
Spawn. In the deadly quiet, his sword shrieked as he again drew it
from its resting place. He stared through hooded eyes at Rupert’s
helmet. As he stalked toward the mounted man, it appeared to
shimmer with heat.

Rupert yelped and yanked it off. When he
threw it from him, Ranald slowly squatted to pick up Rupert’s
sword.

“Now. Get off yer horse,” Ranald ordered as
he rose.

Rupert swung to the ground, cursing and
keeping an eye on Ranald.

Ranald’s lips twitched, baring gleaming white
teeth.

“I found what remained of Sir Giric. If he
had not held ye back, ye would have killed my wife. My son.” A
vicious growl rumbled from his throat. “It’s time I carry out the
promise I made ye.”

He sliced through the air with Rupert’s
sword, testing it, then stilled, studying him.

“Catch!”

Ranald tossed the sword to him.

Catalin could not say who looked the more
frightening. Baron Rupert’s face wore near the same scars as
Ranald’s, only the baron’s were still red and puckered. The two men
looked like starving beasts snarling and stalking each other,
waiting for the kill. All they lacked was spittle foaming from
their lips.

Blades clashed together, the sounds ringing
out on the cleared battleground as they fought. They circled and
struck, each taking the other’s measure. Sweat traced a crooked
path down their scarred cheeks.

Catalin’s glaze remained glued to the two
figures—one side of each man’s face very much like his opponent’s.
Ranald’s contorted into a savage visage. But Rupert’s? Evil clung
like a haze around him. She swallowed back bile each time she
looked at him. Rupert roared when Ranald drew first blood, though
with all the cuts and blood staining their clothing, Catalin did
not know where the new wounds had opened.