Authors: Delilah Devlin,Myla Jackson
Besides, she couldn’t have spent another night worrying about Rufus, wondering where he was and whether he and the men were in trouble. The guys were beginning to grow on her despite their rude manners, coarse language and chauvinistic opinions.
She’d much prefer being in the thick of things with them. She just wished she could have called a cab instead of traveling on top of this four-legged tormentor.
Far ahead, Rufus signaled a halt. A rider approached him and Jacq could feel the crackle of tension in the air that passed down the column of men.
Horses whinnied and weapons were drawn. Jacq pulled her own sword from its scabbard and waited nervously for what would come next. Rufus and Donald moved forward to meet the newcomer who was talking fast and gesturing urgently. A lump of excitement rose in her throat, threatening to cut off her air. She knew from the grim satisfaction on Rufus’ face the supply wagons must be near.
Rufus dismounted, then turned and motioned the men to move off the trail. Quick to follow the others’ example, Jacq slid out of her saddle onto wobbly legs. She led her horse far into the brush and left him tied to a tree. Breaking off branches from bushes she passed, she did like the others and quickly camouflaged her clothing before taking cover next to the trail, careful to blend into the greenery of the forest.
Then they waited. The woods around her became so still, the birds began to sing again. Jacq felt her heart pound so hard she was sure the man hiding in the bushes beside her would hear it. Her nerves stretched and she struggled to keep from moving.
Then her nose began to itch so badly she could barely stand it.
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Just when she thought she’d have to scratch, she heard sounds coming from farther down the trail. The itch was forgotten as the jangling harnesses and distinctive rumble of wooden wheels against rutted tracks preceded the first lumbering cart into view.
Armor-clad riders rode alongside the precious stores. Another cart and more warriors followed.
As they drew parallel to her position, she saw the man atop the first cart pull back on the leads, drawing the cart to a halt. Unlike the warriors, he was dressed in the plain clothes of a serf.
One of the knights rode up to the driver. “Why are you stopping?”
“I have to answer a call to nature,” the driver whined.
“Hang it over the side, we have many more miles to travel to get our cargo to camp before dark.”
“That isn’t the particular call I need to answer.”
The knight muttered an obscenity under his breath before wheeling his horse around and shouting, “We’ll take a short rest. Make sure half of you men stay with the carts at all times. This will be our last stop before reaching camp.”
The men dismounted. The driver of the first cart walked into the woods on the opposite side of the trail.
With her heart pounding hard against her ribs, Jacq had to remind herself to breathe. She’d never been this close to the possibility of death before.
As enemy soldiers walked right past the men hidden in the bushes, Jacq expected a shout of discovery at any moment.
Then one stepped past her, untying his braies as he went. At the sound of liquid spilling to the ground, the man hidden beside her eased away from his position.
Jacq was undecided whether to follow, when in a flurry of movement, he grabbed the unsuspecting man from behind, one hand over his mouth, the other slashing a dagger across his neck.
Horrified, she watched as Rufus’ man continued to hold the warrior while his body spasmed, before quietly easing him to the ground. Her stomach roiled in protest as she watched him pause to wipe his dagger clean against the tunic of the man he’d just killed.
As she fought her gag reflex, she realized murder was occurring in the dense forest all around her. She tightened her grip on her sword and faced the trail once more girding herself for what would come next.
Suddenly, a bloodcurdling cry erupted, echoing loudly as Rufus’ men sprang from their positions to engage the men still guarding the carts. Jacq moved forward too, frightened out of her wits, but determined.
Lord, hear my prayer…
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Chest billowing, each breath sounding loud to her own ears, she recalled every hour spent sparring with her father and every lesson learned fighting in the Faire mêlées.
The knight who had called the halt shouted, “For Stephen,” and lunged toward her, his sword slashing in a silver arc. Her own blade met his with a bone-jarring thud and she whirled away swinging her sword to meet his again.
Adrenaline pumped through her veins and she pranced forward, her sword slashing. Suddenly, her opponent’s face registered surprise, then grew slack. Sword still held above her head, she watched as he crumpled, and Donald pulled his blade from the knight’s back, looking up at her to flash a grin of triumph.
She whirled about, ready for the next comer, but was surprised to find the battle had ended as quickly as it began.
Chest heaving still, Jacq stared around her in a daze. The bodies of the dead littered the trail. She tried not to dwell on their faces for each reflected their last frozen expression.
Reality fell over her like a cold blanket as she watched the men raise their swords high, shouting in victory. She lowered her own and her gaze searched those still standing until she found Rufus. So relieved he was well, she took a step toward him before she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be there.
A heavy hand landed between her shoulder blades, knocking her forward. “Well done!”
She coughed, then quickly ducked her head to hide her features from Donald.
“Thank you for your aid,” she muttered, pitching her voice low.
“Didn’t look to me as though you needed any,” he responded. He peered at her dirty face quizzically, “Do I know you?”
Jacq was spared an answer by Rufus calling Donald’s name. She sighed her relief.
That was a close one.
To keep busy and avoid any further conversation, she joined the men in the gruesome task of pulling the bodies of the dead off the trail and into the forest. Then she retrieved her horse. When she returned, she was surprised to see the driver of the first cart in conversation with Rufus. Then it dawned on her that his “call to nature” had been a little too convenient. He was one of the spies.
As the men finished their tasks, Jacq once again kept to the fringe of the group gathered around awaiting further instructions. She knew she’d been lucky to escape Rufus’ attention this long, but she couldn’t regret her part in this “operation” and felt rather proud she’d held her own in an honest-to-God sword fight.
Today’s experience helped her understand Rufus’ concern for her safety. Yes, she was taller than most men, and while physically fit by modern standards, she didn’t kid herself into believing she could last very long in a battle against men who’d been training for it all their adult lives. Her arm and shoulder still trembled from the strain of wielding her sword even for such a short time.
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Her gaze sought the man who gained more of her respect with each passing day.
Rufus was oblivious to the powerful impression he made. His height and massive build dwarfed many of his followers. He wasn’t a vain man, although he certainly had plenty to be proud of. His features were sharp and chiseled and achingly handsome to her. She wished she could walk into his arms right now to share some of his awesome strength, if only for a moment.
Rufus had enough troubles on his mind. He would have one more if he discovered her deception at this point. They still had the objective of delivering ale to Braxton. She vowed to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Later, once they returned to their own camp, she would think of a way to keep him from being too angry with her.
* * * * *
Rufus ordered his men to search among the bodies for chain mail and boiled leather armor that hadn’t been too badly damaged or soiled by the battle. Admittedly, he hadn’t had much of a plan beyond the “rescue” of the ale, but one was quickly formulating in his mind.
“Dudley,” he spoke to the man who had driven the carts into the ambush. “How well known were these men in Braxton’s camp?”
“As well known as any hired mercenary ever is, milord.”
Rufus thought about that for a moment, then asked, “Is there one among these whose wounds are not visible on his face, who might be more recognizable than others?”
The portly little man walked among the bodies, examining each face then paused, pointing down to one. “This one is Braxton’s own man.”
Rufus studied the body for a moment, then summoned two men from the
gathering. “You two—strip his body, bind the wounds so they will not seep, then dress him in another’s clothing and armor—preferably something undamaged.”
While the two jumped to his bidding, Rufus turned his attention to the prize they had won. He wasn’t surprised to find Donald supervising the preparation of the ale. He found him standing in the bed of one of the carts, next to a barrel that had been turned upright.
“It should be a sin, milord, to waste good ale on the likes of Braxton and his men.”
Rufus snorted. “Consider it our sacrifice to Duke Henry’s cause. Although, I suppose it would be less of a sin if we first refreshed ourselves at Stephen’s expense, eh Donald?”
Donald grinned. “Well, since you insist, let’s give the men one cup. It will be a fine insult to toast the success of our plan.”
A metal cup was produced and Donald pulled the wooden plug from the barrel to let the ale spill into the cup. The single vessel was passed from man to man.
When all had tasted, Donald sighed deeply. “Seems such a waste of good ale.”
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Rufus disagreed. “It’s a very small price for what we are about to buy. Get on with it. Our time grows short. It grows dark already.”
“Very well, milord.”
Rufus asked for one last cupful before Donald poured Gwen’s potion into the barrel. After treating each barrel on both carts, Rufus ordered the corpse that had been redressed placed in the space behind the seat of one of the carts. The body was arranged so that it was sitting with its head supported against a barrel. Then Rufus poured the entire contents of the cup over the dead man.
Rufus turned his back to the carts and addressed his men in the lengthening shadows. “I will need one man to drive the second cart. Who will be my volunteer to bring our gift into the middle of the enemy camp?”
A hand rose from the very rear of the gathering.
Donald nudged Rufus’ arm. “Looks as if you’ve got your volunteer, milord.”
“Very good. I will also need several men to serve as escort for the carts. We recovered sufficient armor for four men.” He nodded when several stepped forward.
“Donald, show them the items and see who can wear them. These men will escort the carts to the camp, and then disappear on the pretext of tending to their horses.”
While Rufus had been speaking, his first volunteer climbed aboard the cart’s wooden seat, taking up the reins. In the gloom of dusk his woolen cap cast a shadow over his face, hiding his features.
With Dudley at his side, Rufus walked over to the man. He peered up at him and issued his orders. “Drive into the camp. Deliver the ale. Speak only when spoken to.
Dudley will take care of the rest. If they ask where the other soldiers are, tell them they stayed behind at the last inn, too drunk to stand. Tell them the man behind you is passed out drunk. Don’t say any more than you have to, just deliver the ale and get out.”
The man nodded and remained silent.
“Oh, and scrub some of the black off your face.”
Raising an arm to his face, the man rubbed his sleeve against his cheek as he mumbled through the material, “Yes, milord.”
“Good, then let’s be on our way.”
Rufus mounted his horse and stood at the side of the trail as the carts, along with their escort, moved down the road in the direction of the enemy camp.
Donald brought his horse alongside his own. “Are the rest of the men ready to follow?” Rufus asked.
“Yes,” Donald confirmed.
“Give the order to move out.” He stared at the back of the man seated in the second cart as he drew farther away. A strange feeling crept over him. He thought he knew all the men he had “inherited” from Lord Albermarle. This one he couldn’t quite place. He shrugged. Perhaps he was just tired. That vixen Jacq had a way of robbing a man’s good 118
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night’s sleep in one fashion or another. Likely he just didn’t recognize the man due to the amount of grime on his face.
“Move out!” Donald shouted, and the men followed after the last cart.
* * * * *
Holy shit!
This had to be one of the stupidest things she’d ever done. What had possessed her to raise her hand? Jacq held the reins like she’d seen it done in the movies. She didn’t know a thing about driving wagons or stubborn donkeys…or were they mules? Well, whatever the long-eared, bony creatures in front of her were.
She had almost fainted when Rufus had approached her—sure she was about to be discovered. Although it was inevitable she’d be found out, she’d hoped it would be
after
they returned to their own camp…and after she had struck a blow for feminism.
Right now, she had a job to do and she was determined to do it right. After all, the tainted ale had been her idea. She should be the one to deliver it. She just had to remember to breathe once in a while before she passed out, and not think about the dead man sitting behind her.
From one moment to the next, darkness fell. Light from a half-moon illuminated the rutted tracks. Lulled into a semi-trance by the steady rocking motion of the wagon, she was surprised when the lead cart drew to a halt.
A quick glance around confirmed that sometime in the past minutes Rufus’ men had melted away from the trail, leaving only the two carts and the guards in their borrowed armor.