Samantha James (17 page)

It was the boy who answered. “What boon would you ask, sir?”

The man rubbed his bewhiskered cheek. “There was a fork in the road a fair distance back. I fear we lost our way. Which will take us to London?”

Simon raised a hand and pointed back over
their shoulders. “If you go back whence you came, the road to the left will take you south to London. The ride will take you some three or four days.”

The man doffed his coif. “Our thanks, lad.”

An instant later they whirled their horses and were off. Alana sent a fervent prayer heavenward, heartily glad they were gone. Giving a nod to Simon, they hurried on their way.

Tucked in her pouch were several honey cakes for which Aubrey had displayed a particular fondness. He was pleased with her gift, as she’d known he would be. It was near dusk when she finally arose to take her leave of him. She hated to go, for it seemed that only with Aubrey could she truly be herself. With Merrick she must be ever on guard, ever alert to keep her feelings in check.

Though Alana urged him to stay seated, Aubrey walked with her to the door of the hut. He grasped his staff, tottering a bit as he stood there. Blessed Virgin, but the winter had not been kind to him. He seemed so old, she thought with a pang. Fear struck her heart like the shaft of an arrow; it was then she was struck by a fleeting sensation…How many times would she see him thus again? She hugged him fiercely, and for so long he cleared his throat.

“Faith, child, you dare not dally any longer! Darkness comes soon and I would have you and the boy back at Brynwald before then. I hear tell that rebel bands of Saxons prowl about, robbing and thieving, men who care nary a whit whom they hurt.”

Alana laid a hand on his arm. “We will be back at the keep long before dark,” she assured him. Her mind was not on his warning, however, but rather on the strange feeling she’d had. Yet his wave was hearty and stout as he bid them Godspeed. Mayhap, she decided cautiously as they left the village behind, her imagination had become overzealous.

But her mind was soon to turn to other matters. They were scarcely out of the village when Simon grabbed her elbow.

By the time she glanced up, she and Simon were surrounded…by none other than the ragged, filthy men they’d encountered earlier.

Beside her Simon’s eyes flashed. “Stand aside that we may pass,” he ordered sharply.

“I think not, lad.” The man who had addressed them earlier—their leader, it seemed—gave a wheezing laugh. “Nay, I think not.”

Alana’s insides seemed to freeze. Nonetheless, she faced them boldly. “We have done nothing to you,” she stated clearly. “We are on our way back to Brynwald Keep—”

“Ah, lassie, that we know.” He grinned, displaying a wide gap-toothed smile. “’Tis amazing what can be learned by asking the right questions.”

Her heart seemed to stop. Her lips barely moved as she spoke. “What do you want of us? We have no jewels, no coin—”

“’Tis not what we want of you, but what we would have of the lord of Brynwald. But never fear, lass, if all goes well we’ll have the both of you back within a fortnight.”

A cold lump of dread settled like a stone in the pit of her belly. “What,” she said faintly. “Surely you cannot mean to abduct us—”

The man leered. “A quick one, ain’t she, lads?”

“Nay, you cannot do this! I am Saxon, as Saxon as you—”

“But a Norman’s prize—and one he obviously favors from the look of that mantle of yours.” He grinned slyly. “No doubt he would pay a king’s ransom for ye, and aye, for his nephew, there, too.”

Terror raced through her. By now four of the others had dismounted. Both she and Simon began to back away, but alas, two of the men had already seized hold of them. The two of them twisted and kicked and struggled mightily, but there was no help for it; they were soon trussed up tight as piglets and thrown on the back of a horse.

At a signal from their leader, the Saxons tore off wildly toward the forest with their bounty. But one thought crowded her mind as they left Brynwald behind.

Merrick would surely think she had tried to flee him…yet again.

In that, she was right.

Merrick was furious when he arrived back from York, only to discover Alana had not
returned from the village. He had immediately searched out Simon, but the boy was missing as well.

Now he turned burning eyes toward the old man Aubrey’s hut. The old man swore that naught was amiss when Alana had left shortly before eventide; he was adamant that she had departed with Simon.

Merrick smote his fist against his palm. Ah, but he should have known better than to trust her…those lips that were ever so sweet and pliant would ever lie and deceive him! He despised the thought that leaped to his mind, yet he had no choice. It seemed the wench had escaped him yet again!

Yet why was Simon with her? It made no sense. Had she forced the boy into leaving with her? Simon scarcely possessed the strength of a man, yet he was a wiry, muscled youth well able to defend himself against a woman—especially one so slight as Alana.

Even as he stood there, snow began to drift from the sky. Within seconds it was like a fine white curtain before his eyes. He cursed long and foully. He could accomplish little in the darkness. And if the snow did not cease soon, whatever tracks she might have made would be covered by morn.

His jaw clenched. But he would find her, he vowed blackly. By the Virgin, he would find her. And then…then she would learn she had played him for a fool for the last time.

N
ever in all her days had she been so frightened. They rode for hours, ever deeper into the darkness of the forest. It was well into the next day before they stopped at a spacious forest glade. Alana was numb with cold and fatigue and hunger by then.

Their leader’s name was Bramwell. He jerked Alana down from where she’d sat behind him on his mount. As her feet touched the ground, her legs protested her weight after so many hours in the saddle. She staggered and nearly fell, biting back a cry of pain.

He untied her hands that she might attend her personal needs, and she did so quickly. Returning from the bushes, she could not help but overhear a low-voiced conversation.

She started when a hand touched her elbow. But it was only Simon. He beckoned and they retreated slightly.

“Could you hear them?” he whispered.

She nodded. “Bramwell has sent a man back to Brynwald with a demand for ransom.”

He would have spoken further, but his teeth began to clack so that she could scarcely understand him. One of Bramwell’s men had stolen his mantle, still another his heavy woolen tunic, leaving him clad in only a thin linen shirt, chausses and boots.

Without hesitation she whipped her own mantle off and placed it about his thin shoulders.

His eyes conveyed his protest. “There is no need,” he began.

“There is every need, Simon.” Her eyes flashed warningly. “You shiver with cold. I am far more used to the chill than you,” she lied. “What if you should sicken as you did not so very long ago? Your mother would ne’er forgive me. I would ne’er forgive myself.”

He bit his lip, his gaze reluctant as it met hers. Some silent message passed between them in that instant, something that had not been there before.

He touched her arm with his bound hands. “I am in your debt,” he said solemnly.

Alana pretended to watch the snow sift down from the treetops, but her throat was achingly tight. She and Simon had spent much time together, but there always had been an elusive barrier between them. Only now—now she had the curious sensation that such was not the case at all…

Her attention was not to dwell for long on the boy. She gasped as one of Bramwell’s men suddenly dragged her forward, nearly wrenching her arm from its socket. Dirty and unsavory,
his hair hung in clumps nearly to his shoulders. His beard was ragged and unkempt. There was no doubt what he intended. His eyes, afire with lust, lingered on her breasts. Though terror lay in a cold hard lump in her belly, Alana sought to jerk her arm back, but he was not to be denied. He rounded on her with a feral snarl.

Simon’s voice rang out clearly. “If she is harmed, you may be certain Merrick will pay no ransom. He prizes her greatly.”

Bramwell, off with another of his men, suddenly turned. “Ewert!” he shouted. “The boy is right. Tie the wench once more and come here!”

The Saxon Ewert retrieved the leather thongs that had bound her wrists. But as he straightened, Simon sneered. “What, Bramwell! Do you so fear a mere woman that you must bind her?”

Again Bramwell’s head swiveled toward them. Alana held her breath, for the Saxon’s expression was fierce to behold.

He approached them. “You are a noisy one, Norman. And methinks I would like it better if I did not have to listen to your drivel.” He stroked his beard and smiled slyly. “Aye, I should like it even better if I were no longer forced to gaze upon your Norman face and form.”

An awful fear gripped Alana’s heart, for she was certain they meant to kill the boy. Bramwell turned away and gestured to one of the others. They spoke in low-voiced whispers; she strained to hear.

“…take him north to the place where the river meets the sea…keep him there at the camp…Nay…Nay! We must have a care, for ’tis said Merrick of Normandy is as deadly a warrior as any of the Danes! And ’tis his coin we covet, not his vengeance…wait there until you have word from me…when their ransom is in hand we will kill them, both of them…”

Alana’s blood turned to ice in her veins. Sweet heaven, they would
kill
them…

Her shoulders slumped as she watched Simon taken away, mounted behind his captor. Her heart cried out. She could only pray that God would keep him safe, if only for now.

A long time later, she stared into the firelight. She feared what Merrick would think, afraid of what he would not. She had no doubt he would pay whatever ransom Bramwell demanded for Simon, but what about her? Her heart twisted. Indeed, there was every chance he would refuse to part with his coin for the sake of her safety. No doubt he would think himself well rid of her.

But indeed, what did it matter if he paid the ransom or no? Bramwell would kill them either way.

On and on her mind twisted and turned. Bramwell threw her a fur and offered her a hunk of dried meat but she could scarce eat a bite. The snow had stopped long ago. The circle of the moon rose high in a night-dark sky. The Saxons swilled eagerly from several horns of ale. Alana sat huddled against the
trunk of an oak tree, unable to rest, unable to still the wanderings of her mind.

From whence the idea came, she didn’t know. Nor did she care, for she suddenly realized…One by one, the Saxons had dropped off into a noisy sleep. Snores rose and fell all around her. Indeed, there was no one to see what she did or did not do…No one to stop her from doing what she would…
going
where she would. No doubt morning would be nigh before these drunken louts awakened.

A full moon shone down from the heavens, spilling its milky glow through the tree branches. Excitement gathered in the pit of her stomach. She rose, her muscles stiff and cramped from the cold. Little by little she crept forward, watchful for any signs of stirring from the Saxons.

Her heart was thudding so wildly that she feared they could surely hear it. She scattered the horses, save for one, a gentle palfrey. With no mounts, the Saxons would be unable to give flight after her except on foot.

Moments later horse and rider vanished into the night.

It was purely a hunch that prompted Merrick to lead his men northward into the forest. As he’d suspected, last eve’s snow had covered all trace of footsteps. But near midday, near a fallen tree trunk he spied the unmistakable signs that horses had passed through.

He forged on, more determined than ever.

Not long after, there was a shout from one of his men. “My lord, look!”

Merrick’s eyes followed his finger. A small, bedraggled figure atop a small palfrey plodded toward them. He gave a sharp exclamation and dug his spurs into the sides of his destrier.

It was Alana.

The instant he drew near, he was off his horse and grabbing for the reins. Her hands were wrapped in cloth torn from her skirts. Her face was so pale her eyes stood out like vivid jewels. The tattered fur draped over her shoulders looked half-frozen. Her lips formed his name but no sound emerged.

Weary beyond measure, chilled to the marrow of her bones, she sought to focus both mind and sight. Indeed, Alana wondered if the sight of Merrick before her was perchance but a dream.

It took all her strength to hold herself upright in the saddle. She pressed a hand to her forehead. Why was she so dizzy? Yet deep in some far distant corner of her brain she realized she had made it.

“Simon,” she said hoarsely. It hurt to speak, to move, even to breathe. “You must find…Simon. They took him…”

“Who, Saxon?” It was Merrick. His voice washed over her like a flood of reality. “Who took him? And where is he?”

Strong arms caught her as she leaned forward. She was dimly aware of being pulled from the horse, then being held, of staring
upward into searing gray eyes. He was angry, she thought vaguely, his scowl as black as she’d yet to see it. Her heart wrenched. Why? her heart cried. Why must he ever and always be angry with her…?

Spots danced before her eyes. Merrick’s features drew near, then seemed to fade. She shivered violently, unaware of the arms that tightened about her.

“Saxons,” she managed. “One named Bramwell sought to ransom him…they took him north…to a place where the river meets the sea…” Her eyes filled with tears. “You must hurry. You must help him…”

Above her, Merrick rapped out orders. A dark void seemed to swirl all about her, tugging at her, as if to pull her in.

She remembered no more.

When next she woke, she was warm and dry, tucked snugly into bed at Brynwald. Memory surfaced, swift and merciless, and she heard herself cry out Simon’s name. Above her, someone murmured reassuringly, laying a soft, feminine hand on her brow.

It was Genevieve. Alana opened her eyes to find Merrick’s sister bending over her, the smoothness of her brow furrowed with worry. With a gasp she tried to sit up.

“Nay, be still,” Genevieve said firmly. “You are not yet ready to rise.”

Alas, it was true. Alana felt as if she’d been bruised and beaten over every part of her body. “How did I come to be here?” she asked weakly.

“Merrick sent one of his men-at-arms back with you, then went on to find Simon.”

“They have not yet returned?”

Genevieve shook her head no.

Try though she might, Alana could not withhold the anxious fear that flitted across her features. Oddly, it was Genevieve who reassured her, patting her hand where it lay atop the edge of the furs.

“Do not fear, Alana. My brother would spare naught to protect those he loves. He will find Simon before he comes to any harm.” She smiled, then said softly, “Indeed, ’twas you who gave me a fright such as I have never known. Faith, but when I saw you lying so still and pale and silent…! You slept the day and night through.” She tipped her head to the side. “You must surely be starving.” She moved to the door and called for food.

Once a tray was before her, Alana discovered she was indeed ravenous. She ate every last crumb of the cheese and bread.

Genevieve laughed delightedly. “Would you like more?” Already she’d begun to move toward the door.

“Aye—” Alana started to say, then all at once stopped. She flung her legs from the bed, clamped her hand over her mouth and fought to control the sudden heaving of her stomach. It took but one glimpse of her startled eyes and lack of color and Genevieve ran for a basin.

Alana fell to her knees and retched violently there and then. Her skin was clammy and sweating. She was so weak Genevieve had to
half-lift, half-push her back into the bed. There she collapsed weakly against the pillows.

Genevieve sat beside her and bathed her face with a wet cloth.

Alana’s smile was feeble. “You must forgive me,” she murmured. “’Tis unlike me to be so sickly. But I am ashamed to say that seems to be happening oft of late.”

Genevieve spoke slowly. “This is not the first time?”

Alana shook her head, startled when Genevieve bit her lip. Her expression grew troubled. Alana’s smile withered, for she didn’t understand why Genevieve should peer at her so oddly.

“What,” she said faintly. “Genevieve, what is it? Tell me.”

For an instant it appeared she would not. Then all at once she blurted, “Oh, but I do hate to say such, but…you are so slender, Alana. As I undressed you I couldn’t help but note that your waist has thickened.” She hesitated. “How long has it been since your last course?”

Alana blanched visibly. Her mind searched frantically backward. What with the drastic changes her life had seen of late, she’d paid no heed…“Not since I came to the keep,” she said shakily. “Early December mayhap.”

“Alana, I’ve rarely been wrong about these things, but…’tis my guess that you are with child.”

Alana’s hand slid to her belly. God in heaven, there was a slight roundness that hadn’t been there before. “Nay,” she said faintly. “Nay, it cannot be.”

One look at her stricken expression and Genevieve was at her side, a comforting arm around her shoulder. “There now,” she soothed. “Do not be distressed! Surely Merrick will—”

“Merrick!” Alana clutched at Genevieve. “Nay, you cannot tell him! I beg of you, do not tell him!”

Genevieve bit her lip, clearly in doubt. Alana pleaded and wept until at last she agreed. The girl was so distraught Genevieve could do little else. She managed to calm her, settling her back into bed and drawing the covers up about her chin.

But there was no rest for Alana.

She laced her arms about her knees and stared sightlessly across the chamber, her eyes so dry they hurt. Genevieve had whispered this babe would be a blessing. A shroud of despair crept around her heart. A child was a possibility she had not foreseen—and oh, she’d been so foolish not to! All at once she was terrified of what the future might hold, not only for herself, but for her child.

For she had no doubt that Merrick would be less than pleased when he discovered her condition.

She remained in her chamber throughout the remainder of the day. A soft, purple haze of twilight crept between the shutters when there was suddenly a loud commotion outside in the yard.

She hastened to the window. A group of
riders had just entered the keep. Even as she watched, Simon leaped to the ground. The relief that flooded her was immense, yet she could scarcely focus on anything other than Merrick as he swung to the ground. Genevieve ran out from the hall just then. As mother embraced son, Alana looked on, a curious catch in her heart. Genevieve wept freely. Merrick stepped up, and laid a strong hand on the back of the boy’s head, a gesture that bespoke a familiar affection.

There was an odd tightening in her chest. Would Merrick treat his own son so? She was unable to stop her mind from straying where it would. Indeed, ’twas hardly likely Merrick would even claim her babe as his own. A melancholy sadness seemed to grab hold of her heart and squeeze. Never had she felt so very alone! As if she did not belong…

As indeed she did not.

Some while later there was a knock on the door. Alana hesitated, then called, “Enter.” Her muscles relaxed as she saw it was Genevieve. In her hands she carried the fur-lined mantle Merrick had brought her from London. Smiling, she laid it on the bed.

“Simon thanks you,” she said softly, “as I thank you.”