Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) (26 page)

His words were cut off as a knight cuffed him into silence and he slumped forward.  She flinched, feeling the blow as if it bruised her own body.  Then they dragged him, senseless and vulnerable, away from Rivenloch, into the shadowy twilight and the camp of the enemy.

“Pagan!”

Her cry was lost to the wind, buried beneath the thunder cracking the sky.  She longed to rage like the storm, scream at the heavens, rain vile insults upon the enemy, curse the English and the Devil and God himself for such an injustice.  But it would do no good.  No words could express such grievous fury.  And so she hung her head, inconsolable.  Tears rolled unabashedly down her cheeks, dropping onto the ruins below.  She clenched her hands together so tightly that the crest from Pagan’s ring left its mark upon her palm.

Never had she experienced such impotence.  Never had she known such despair.  Never had she imagined she could be brought to such depths of sorrow over a Norman.

Pagan was awakened by a sharp kick to the ribs.  He jerked reflexively, but could move little, for his arms and legs were bound.  Blinking, he tried to orient himself.  He lay upon a damp carpet within a striped pavilion.  Shadowy tongues of candlelight licked at the sides of the tent.  Night had fallen.

That was good.  The English wouldn’t attempt to storm Rivenloch by night, which would give his men time to better prepare for her defense.

Surrounding him, mangy brutes, wet and ragged and reeking from too many days on the road, crouched and narrowed their eyes, as if they studied some strange new beast.

“Pagan,” someone grunted.

Pagan raised his eyes.  This must be one of the rogue English lords.  The black-bearded man’s gap-toothed grin looked like the hideous grimace of a gargoyle.

“That’s what the Warrior Maid called ye,” the man said smugly.  “Not too many by that name.  I’m thinkin’ ye’re Cameliard.”

The rest of the savages drew eagerly close, like men playing at dice, wagering on his response.

“Never heard of him,” Pagan said.

“Is that so?" a second man asked, stroking the rust-colored stubble of his jaw.  "Then I suppose ye’re just some hapless wretch dropped down to retrieve the old sot who fell from the tower?”

“That’s right.”

The first man’s eyes narrowed to reptilian slits, and he kicked Pagan again, this time in the belly.  Pagan groaned in pain.

“Ye’re lyin’,” he sneered.  He bent close then, close enough that Pagan could smell the stench of his unwashed body and his rotting teeth.  “Ye’re him, all right.  And ye’ve been discourteous, puttin’ a coil in our plans like this.”

No doubt he
had
ruined their plans, Pagan thought.  The Englishman had probably assumed the castle was defended by three Scots maids and a handful of feeble knights.

“But mind ye...”  A third man rolled raven black eyes at him. “‘Tis only a
bit
of a coil.  Indeed, I wager ye might be worth ransomin’.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Pagan muttered.  “My men don’t barter with English swine.”

The first man snagged Pagan by the throat.  “If not yer men,” he said slyly, “then maybe yer mistress.  The way that lusty Scots whore was squallin’ after—“

Violent rage erupted in Pagan.  He spat in the man’s leering face.

Revenge was swift as the English guards came to their lord’s defense.  Fists and boots pummeled him from all sides.  Again and again the soldiers pounded at him until his blood flecked their hands and his bones throbbed with bruises.

“Enough!” the man finally shouted.  “Save it for his slut.”

Pagan wheezed through battered ribs.  The sweat of nausea beaded his brow.  He’d already conceded to forfeit his life, if need be, for the security of Rivenloch.  Not only was it his duty as a soldier of the King, but his desire as Deirdre’s husband.  He’d risked his life to save her father, because he couldn’t bear to see her hurt.  He’d realized the moment he scaled down the tower wall that the odds were against him.

But knowing how much Deirdre doted upon the lord, knowing that she’d surrender Rivenloch before she’d let them torture her father, Pagan made what he considered a reasonable sacrifice.  It would be far easier for Deirdre to turn a blind eye to the sufferings of her new husband than those of her beloved father.

And it appeared those sufferings would resume on the morrow.

The English were no fools.  While they were perfectly capable of demolishing the castle with the trebuchet, that wouldn’t be wise, for once they won Rivenloch, they’d need to guard their prize in turn against other invaders.  Damaging the castle walls would only weaken their own capacity for defense.  The trebuchet, for all its effectiveness, was essentially a double-edged sword.

The marauders had clearly thought Rivenloch an easy conquest, a remote, unguarded castle governed by a feeble lord, and so they hadn’t planned much beyond frightening the Scots into submission.  But now that they saw it wouldn’t be that easy, it was more prudent to seize the castle by cunning or negotiation.

The English imagined they had a valuable hostage in Pagan.  They were wrong, of course.  Pagan’s men had been trained to follow his orders strictly.  He’d commanded Rauve to hold Rivenloch, no matter what happened.  Pagan had faith he would do so.

“But there
has
to be something we can do!” Deirdre snapped at Sir Rauve, who sniffed and scowled darkly into his ale.

The rest of the knights assembled in the great hall grew quiet at their heated exchange.  Lord Gellir, only vaguely aware of what transpired, sat beside the fire with Lucy and a warm cup of mulled wine.  Miriel comforted a pair of sniffling children in a corner of the keep.  But Helena, chewing her nails over Colin, who lay unconscious near the hearth on a makeshift bed of straw, listened intently.

Deirdre smoldered with barely contained rage.  “He’s your captain.  You can’t just let him—”  Her throat closed on the word.

But to her amazement, as she scanned the room, looking into the faces of Pagan’s men, she saw the same stubborn refusal in all their averted eyes.

With a cry of fury, she knocked the cup from Rauve’s hand, spattering wine across the floor.  The dark liquid seeped into the rushes like spilled blood.

Without a word, he straightened to his full height, towering over her.  The rest of the knights of Cameliard followed suit.  Tension bristled in the air.

Hel shot suddenly to her feet.  “What is wrong with you Normans?  Are you a bunch of sniveling cowards, afraid of the dark?”

A muscle in Rauve’s cheek twitched, and Deirdre saw his hand tighten on the pommel of his sword.

“Pah!  The Scots are no cowards,” Helena gloated, elbowing her way through the knights of Rivenloch, thumping some of them on the chest, jostling the shoulders of others.  “We’ll take on the English, won’t we, lads?  Without the help of these miserable, cowering—“

”You will not leave this keep.”  Rauve’s voice was as grim as his face.

Hel’s jaw dropped.

Deirdre shoved the insolent knight in the chest.  “And you will not issue orders in my castle.”

Though his gaze darkened, he made no move to fight back.  “They are not my orders, my lady.  They are Pagan’s.”

“What?”

“What?” Hel echoed.

“Before he left to rescue your father, he charged me to hold Rivenloch at all costs.”

Deirdre narrowed her eyes.  “That was before they took him hostage.”

“He knew they might.  ‘Tis why he gave me distinct orders.”

“What orders?”

“Orders not to negotiate.”

“Who said anything about negotiating?” Hel chimed in.  “I say we go out there and fight the bloody bastards.  Right, lads?”  She lifted her arms, raising a cheer of accord from the Rivenloch knights.

“Nay!” Rauve bellowed.  “The first man to step out the front gates will be shot by Cameliard archers for treason.”

“What?”  Helena’s eyes widened.

The Norman knights moved carefully away from the Rivenloch men then, creating a clear separation, their hands hovering over their weapons.  The Scots froze, their eyes shifting about warily.  The air grew as taut as a drawn bow.

“You can’t be serious,” Deirdre whispered.

Rauve’s lips thinned, and Deirdre saw at once that Pagan’s man was just as displeased with his orders as she was.  But he was a loyal soldier, and he’d given his oath to Pagan.

“‘Tis at the King’s behest that we hold Rivenloch.  That directive outweighs the life of any one man.”

He choked over the last words, and Deirdre suddenly realized she’d judged Rauve too harshly.  He, too, probably longed for any excuse to storm from the castle, lop off a dozen English heads, and bring his captain back alive, his royal allegiance be damned.

“If we take them unawares,” Deirdre insisted in desperation, “catch them with their trews down...”

Rauve shook his head.  “They’ve posted guards around the castle wall.”

“We could take them,” Helena muttered, pouting.  “I know we could.”

Helena’s boast was groundless, of course.  They were outnumbered three to one, and that was only if every fighter available left the keep unguarded to attack in full force, which was irresponsible.  Besides, the English had the trebuchet.

Deirdre resisted the urge to scream in frustration.  More now than ever, Pagan needed her cool head.  And for all their sake, her men needed her to ally with the Normans before a fight broke out here in the great hall.  “What would Pagan expect us to do?”

Rauve spit into the rushes.  “At daybreak, they’ll demand his ransom.”

Deirdre’s throat thickened with pain.  Her eyes brimmed with tears of despair, but she refused to shed them.  “And?”

“And we’ll refuse.”

“Splendid!”  Helena crossed her arms impatiently over her breasts.  “And they’ll just load up that bloody giant sling and smash Rivenloch to bits.”

“They’re more likely to lay siege,” Rauve said, “try to starve us out.”  Then he added bitterly, “They won’t want to damage their prize.”

Deirdre’s thoughts raced ahead.  If the English intended to lay siege, they wouldn’t hesitate to use Pagan as leverage, hoping to hasten Rivenloch’s surrender.  They might do anything—break every bone in his body, cut off his fingers, string him up as carrion for the crows.  She swayed as a wave of nausea enveloped her.

Through a dizzying haze, she heard Helena grumbling, “I still say we should storm their camp,” then Rauve replying, “No one leaves.  Defy Sir Pagan’s orders and the orders of the King, and I’ll have no choice but to take action against you.”

At Helena’s snort of contempt, the knights began to disperse, making ready for a restless night.  But Deirdre, lost in thought, remained where she stood.

As the men milled about, Miriel came up beside her, bending down to retrieve Rauve's cup.  She murmured timidly, "What if...if there was another way?"

Deirdre sighed.  Miriel, of course, disapproved of anything that involved fighting.  She probably hoped they could somehow befriend the English and live happily ever after, sharing the castle.  But Deirdre knew better.

"Are the women and children safe?" Deirdre asked, scanning the great hall, where trestle tables were being propped on their sides to serve as makeshift bulwarks in the event the enemy reached the keep.

Miriel tugged insistently at her sleeve.  "Listen, Deirdre."

Deirdre was perhaps less tolerant than she should have been.  "Miriel, I don't have time for this."  She wiped a shaking hand across her brow.  "I know how you feel about warfare, but—"

"Nay!  You don't understand."

"Sometimes," she choked out, "we have to make sacrifices that we—"

"Aye!  But sometimes we
don't
have to.  If you would just—"

"What?" Deirdre snapped, losing patience, wheeling on her.  "What is it, damn you?  I told you, I don't have—"

In an uncharacteristic show of mettle, diminutive Miriel reached up to seize Deirdre's jaw, using her fingers and thumb like a vise, riveting her with an unflinching stare.  Deirdre was shocked into silence.  "Look, you swell-headed, overgrown tyrant of a sister," she bit out with a boldness Deirdre had never heard in her before.  "I have something to show you."

When the hour for action came, the keep was dark and silent but for the snores of Pagan's knights, who were accustomed to grabbing sleep when and where they could.  As for Deirdre, she hadn't slept a wink.

Miriel had presented her an astounding alternative, and she planned to take it.  If all went well, by dawn tomorrow, the English would awake to find their hostage gone.

Only she and Miriel knew of the daring plan, for it was a task for stealth, not force.  It was also counter to Pagan’s orders.  Her lips curved into a grim smile.  Thank God she had no qualms about disobeying Pagan’s orders.

Miriel met her at her chamber door with a rushlight.  “Are you sure you want to do this alone?”

Deirdre nodded.  Then she frowned.  “Where is Sung Li?”  She hadn’t seen the old woman all day.

“She left when the English first arrived.”

“Left?”

“To fetch Lachanburn.”

“What?”  Miriel might just as well have said she’d gone to visit the moon.  “Why would she—“

”She said ‘twas her destiny,” Miriel interrupted.  “Are you ready?”

“Aye.”  Deirdre wanted to know more about Sung Li’s self-imposed mission, but she knew better than to risk Miriel’s newfound temper this eve when so much was at stake.

“Then follow me.”

Deirdre trailed Miriel along the hallway and down the stairs, into a storeroom deep beneath the castle.  Deirdre’s brows lifted as the rushlight illuminated the room.  It was filled with neatly organized casks of ale, wheels of cheese, sacks of grain, smoked meats, and jars of spices, as well as a small desk with a three-legged stool and an accounting ledger.  Deirdre hadn’t come to this room, which was Miriel’s domain, in years.  But now she had an appreciation for the meticulous care with which her little sister managed the supplies.

What Miriel showed her next added a deeper dimension to that appreciation, making her regard her sister with new respect.

At the back of the storeroom was a heavy oak chest, which Miriel slid away from the wall with Deirdre’s help.  And behind that chest was a small square hole at the base of the wall through which Deirdre felt an instant cool draft.

“Sweet Mary,” Deirdre breathed.  “And where does it lead?”

“Once you’re on the other side of the wall, there’s a tunnel tall enough to crouch in.  It curves slightly to the left and continues for a hundred yards or more, and then emerges in the wood, within the stump of a dead tree.  It should bring you within two hundred yards of the pavilions.”

Deirdre nodded.

“Listen.”  Miriel gripped her shoulder with surprising strength.  “If you don’t return in an hour, I’m going to send the knights of Rivenloch through the passage after you.”

She shook her head.  “‘Tis too great a risk.  Rauve is right.  There are too many English.  If I don’t return...”

She left the sentence unfinished, ignoring Miriel’s frown of concern, and checked her weapons again.  A dagger was slipped into each boot, and her new sword of Toledo steel hung against her thigh. 
Amor vincit omnia
, the blade read,
love conquers all
.  She hoped to God it was true.

But Miriel handed her another weapon, a star-shaped disk of steel from her collection.  “‘Tis for throwing,” she said.  “Aim for the throat.”

Deirdre looked one last time at Miriel, who was full of surprises tonight.  A dozen questions flitted through her brain, but Deirdre had no time to ask them.  Besides, part of Deirdre’s barter with Miriel for access to the secret passage had been that she not question Miriel further about it.  She tucked the star into her hauberk, then clasped Miriel’s forearm.  “I'll be back for breakfast.”

Miriel gave her a rueful smile, the smile of someone who’d just given away the key to Pandora’s chest.  Then Deirdre ducked into the passageway.

When she emerged from the rotting tree trunk near the edge of the wood, the rain had stopped, and stars pricked the cloudless night like tiny moth holes in a black cloak.  The scent of moss and mushrooms and leaf fall hung heavily in the damp air, tainted by the acrid stench of English fires, banked and smoldering along the edge of the forest.

She’d seen the pavilion where they’d dragged Pagan.  She only hoped he hadn’t been moved.  Stealing silently through the wood, she approached the striped tent from the rear, staying close to the ground.  She’d have to cut through one of the serge sides to gain entrance, and she’d have to guess at the best spot.  If she disturbed the guards, her rescue mission would turn into an ugly skirmish.

She finally chose a spot, praying she’d come upon Pagan first, cut his bonds, and secret him away, back to Rivenloch, with no one the wiser.

She slipped the point of her dagger into the heavy fabric, wincing at the rasp it made as she slowly dragged the blade down the length of the serge stripe.  When the slit was long enough, she drew in a deep breath and carefully pulled back the edges.

She couldn’t have made a worse choice.  Beyond the light of the candle in the midst of the pavilion, against the furthest wall, Deirdre spied Pagan.  For an instant, she was paralyzed by the sight of him, for though he was wide awake and alert, he was gagged, his cheek was caked with blood, and one of his eyes was swollen nearly shut.  Worse, as he stared at her, his face darkened with burning fury, and for a moment, she wondered if
he
would kill her before the English got a chance.

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed movement, a guard waiting beyond the gash she’d just cut, leering at her like a drooling wolf ready to feast on her flesh.

Maybe if Deirdre had had a few more feminine wiles in her arsenal, she’d have been able to convince him she’d come for a tussle in the hay.  But her first instinct was always to fight.  She didn’t hesitate, switching her dagger to her left hand and thrusting through the slit to smash the hilt into the man’s face, breaking his nose and leaving him squirming in pain on the ground.

But his mewling awakened the rest of the denizens of the tent, and she barely had time to squeeze through the breach and draw her sword before she faced at least a dozen savage foes.

“What have we here?” one of them asked.

Another chortled.  “Oho, it’s the Rivenloch wench.”

The first clutched suggestively at the front of his trews.  “Did ye come for a bit o’ English blade then?”

Pagan jerked his head violently at her, commanding she retreat.  But she stood firm, shaking her head nay, and blowing out a focused stream of air to steady her nerves for the fight ahead.

Pagan scowled pointedly at her, wiggling his fingers against his bonds, indicating she should cut him free first.  But already the knights advanced on her like a pack of wolves.  Instead, she reversed her dagger and fired it in his direction.  It landed a good yard from him, and she silently cursed her injured left arm’s faulty aim.  Nonetheless, he immediately began to edge toward the weapon, straining to reach it before someone else did.

Deirdre swept her sword in a swift, wide arc before her, leaving no question as to her intent, giving the advancing knights pause and dimming their lewd smiles.  She slashed left, then right, and the men leaped back, their laughter more nervous than amused.

She glanced toward Pagan.  His bound hands were still several inches from the dagger.  Frustration seemed to boil off of him in waves.

She made two more quick slices through the air, nicking one man’s hand.  Now the men’s grins vanished altogether, and a few of them drew knives.  She had to delay them, long enough for Pagan to cut himself free.  But how?

Hel would have used her sharp tongue.  By taunting her foes, she oft managed to distract them enough to seize the advantage.  It was a perilous gamble.  But it was a perilous situation.

Deirdre tossed her head in imitation of her sister.  “What are you afraid of?” she goaded the men.  “Come on!  Scots
bairns
brawl with more courage.”

The ruse worked.  Two of the guards, angered by her insult, came at her ill-prepared and suffered wounds to their sword arms because of it.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she sneered.

Another man swung his dagger in a wide arc at her belly, and she shrunk back as the blade whistled past.  Catching him off balance, she shoved him into a pair of his companions, bowling them over.

Inevitably, the knights discovered the merits of attacking all at once.  When they charged, Deirdre drew the second dagger from her boot.  Her sword in one hand, the dagger in the other, she sliced left and right, feinting and lunging, blocking what blows she could, doling out as many injuries as possible.

“Pah!  ‘Tis child’s play!” she crowed.

She sunk her dagger into a man’s thigh, and he screamed, then limped away, unfortunately taking the weapon with him.  Brandishing her sword in both hands, she managed to distance her attackers momentarily, but could gain no ground.  Her advantage was slipping fast as more soldiers took up arms.

She hazarded one last hopeful glance at Pagan.  His fingers, strained to the limit, were now a mere inch from the dagger.  But a guard, following her gaze, saw what he intended and dove for the weapon himself.

God’s blood!  If she hadn’t lost her second dagger...

Suddenly she remembered the throwing star tucked into her hauberk.

She’d never used such a thing before.  She didn’t even know how to use it properly.  If she missed the guard and struck Pagan...

The guard’s fingers closed around her dagger.  There was no time for misgivings.

She surreptitiously slipped a hand inside her hauberk, grasped the star between her thumb and fingers, and with a subtle flick of her wrist propelled it across the pavilion.

God must have guided her hand.  Just as the guard raised his prize in triumph, the star lodged in his throat, widening his eyes and rendering him incapable of screaming.  He collapsed silently forward onto Pagan’s lap.

Deirdre cried out to distract the others.  “Ha, you half-witted sluggards!”  She swept her sword low, forcing the guards to dance back out of the way.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Pagan pull the bloody star free and push its victim off his lap.  As she jabbed randomly forward at the swarming English, he began using the weapon’s finely honed edge to cut through his bonds.

But in the next moment, a brazen guard swatted her blade aside and plunged forward with his sword.  She scarcely managed to recoil in time, but as she leaped back, her foot tangled in a heap of blankets, and she fell hard on her hindquarters against the wall of the pavilion.

She managed to hang on to her sword, but when she whipped it up to defend herself, a half dozen blades already threatened her throat.

“Drop it,” her attacker said.

Cursing silently, she flattened her eyes to cold, hard slits and slowly lowered her weapon.

“That’s it,” he purred, “nice and slow.”

Even before her blade met the ground, one of the guards wrenched it from her grip.  As soon as she was disarmed, the rest of the men began to swagger with renewed arrogance.

“Not so high-and-mighty now, are ye?”

“Has the kitten lost her claws?”

“Now the giglet’s right where she belongs.”

The leader prodded her with the point of his weapon, lascivious heat in his eyes.  “Be a good lass and lie back, and maybe I won’t run you through.  At least not with my sword.”

The others snickered.

She met his fire with ice.  She longed to spit in his face.  But if she pretended to be docile, stalled him long enough, maybe Pagan could get loose.  She hoped so, for it wouldn’t be long until the whole camp was roused.  And then they wouldn’t have a prayer.

“Be still,” the leader said, caressing her throat with the tip of his sword, forcing her back upon her elbows, “and maybe I’ll let you live.”

It was almost impossible to resist checking on Pagan’s progress, but she dared not divert the men’s attention.

“That’s it, wench,” he crooned, tossing aside his sword.  “You be nice to me, and I’ll be nice to you.”

Mistaking her silence for assent, the guards lowered their weapons and began interjecting their own ribald advice.

Taking even, measured breaths and making fists of her hands, Deirdre watched as the man untied his trews and jerked them down, spurring whistles of glee from the others.

Then, beyond the man’s shoulder, rising slowly like a deadly thundercloud, Deirdre glimpsed a most welcome figure.  Pagan.  She clenched her jaw and tensed her muscles to spring.

The moment her attacker came into range, she drew back her leg, then catapulted it forward as forcefully as any trebuchet, kicking him hard between the legs.  Before he could sink in pain, Pagan lunged forward with Deirdre’s dagger.  He wrenched the man around to pierce his heart, putting him instantly out of his misery.

“Run!” Pagan bellowed at her.

He had to be jesting.  She wasn’t about to desert him.  In the ensuing pandemonium, she scrambled for her sword, and Pagan seized the dead man’s blade.  Back to back, they rose to confront the remaining knights.

“I left orders,” he muttered angrily.  "You were to stay in the keep."