'Twas a vow Rannulf had found difficult to keep, but he'd caused his brother enough pain.
“Rannulf.” Connor nodded, his dark eyes expressionless, his voice cool.
He'd forgotten Connor's skill at masking his emotions. “'Tis good to see you,” he said. Wary, but willing to make the first move, Rannulf offered his hand, reached across the space between themâno longer than a yard, though it seemed a league wide until Connor took his hand in a brief, hard grip.
“I've brought the help you asked for.” Connor waved a hand to indicate the twenty or so men ranged behind him. “Your man suggested we wait here for you.”
Rannulf glanced past Connor. Sunlight glinted on armor and a battle cry sounded from the wooded hill on the far side of the village. He reached for his sword. “Behind you,” he said urgently, and Connor drew his own weapon. “To arms!” Rannulf shouted. “Come onâfollow me!”
Mayhem ensued for but a moment, horses milling about until their riders took them in hand and headed through the narrow streets toward the raiders.
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Heartbeat pounding, Gillian steadied herself. “Go!” she cried unnecessarily as the people in the hall headed for the door, knocking over benches and tables in their wake. Over the sounds of chaos came the heavy thud of booted feet from behind her.
Behind her, where the only entrance she knew of was the hidden passageway.
She grabbed up her skirts and raced toward the outside door halfway down the hall, the overturned furniture slowing her pace. A sheathed sword lay abandoned on the floor; pausing to tuck her hem into her belt, she snatched up the weapon and drew the blade free as she moved.
“Come on!” A stream of men, armed and armorclad, streamed into the hall.
A jolt of fear spurred her to greater speed. She jerked open the door as her pursuers clambered over the jumbled furnishings, then slammed it shut behind her.
Damnation! There was no way to bar it from the outside.
One hand pressed to the rough stone wall for balance, sword held in the other, she hurned down the steep stairs. “Nicholas! Sir Henry!” she screamed as she frantically scanned the bailey for them. “There are soldiers in the hall!”
She spied Nicholas near the barracks entrance in the lower level of the keep, directing their men as they poured out into the maze of people, animals and overturned carts already choking the bailey. The gate stood wide and more villagers streamed in, adding to the confusion.
Were the attackers both inside and out?
Just as she reached the bottom of the stairs the door above her opened and the invaders poured onto the landing. The roar of their battle cries sent the masses milling about her into a greater panic.
'Twas nigh impossible to make any headway, but she pushed through the mob, trying to reach Nicholas. He didn't know about the passageway, and likely had no idea how the invaders had gotten in. They needed to send men to close off that entrance at once.
The thunder of hooves on the drawbridge drowned out everything else. Time seemed to pause in that moment, the sights and sounds surrounding her frozen and still. Standing on tiptoe, she looked toward the gate and saw Rannulf riding at the head of a mounted troop of men, then lost sight of him as the crowd shifted about her.
The Virgin be praised, he was alive!
As she wound her way through the press of bodies, she caught glimpses of him. He dismounted, sword drawn, then turned to scan the crowd.
Even as she watched him, she saw more of the armed men force their way across the bailey, heading for Rannulf, Nicholas and their men.
The fighters met in the middle of the chaos, sending the noncombatants into a screaming, terrified frenzy.
She'd never get through here like this. Shouting, brandishing about her with the flat of the sword, she began to creep ahead.
A path opened up near her. Sword held at the ready, she hastened forward. “Rannulf!” she screamed as, blade flashing, he spun to face an attacker.
Hard hands grabbed her from behind, tore the sword from her grasp and tossed it aside and dragged her backward toward the keep. To her horror she saw a man wielding a cudgel race up to Rannulf from behind and club him in the head. “No!” she cried when he dropped from her sight. Frantic, she clawed at the mail-clad arms wrapped about her middle, but she could not loosen their hold. When she dug in her heels, her captor lifted her off her feet and slung her over his shoulder, laughing as she continued to struggle.
“Squirm and yell all you want,” he said in Welsh, his hand on her back pressing her so tightly to his shoulder that he squeezed the air from her lungs. “Won't make a whit o' difference. You're coming with me.”
Gillian gasped as he carried her up the stairs, each jolting step threatening to force her stomach into complete rebellion. She tried to grab at him, but his mail hauberk proved too hard and slick to catch hold of. She could scarcely breathe, but she tried to call out, to draw attention to herself.
In the melee surrounding them, however, no one would hear her meager cries.
The only thought in her mind was to free herself and go to Rannulf, but no matter how she fought, she could not so much as slow the man who bore her across the hall and toward the passageway.
He couldn't carry her as he'd been doing, so he swung her around and set her on her feet, binding her hands close together in front of her with a length of stout rope. “Master told us you weren't to be harmed,” he said, unbuckling her belt and slipping her sheathed eating knife from it. “But I can't have you trying to get away, either.”
“Don't you know who I am?” Her voice shook from fear and anger. Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “I am lady of this keep. I'll reward you well if you let me go.”
“âCourse I know who you areâI wouldn't be haulin' you out o' here elsewise,” he muttered. “But I got my orders, milady. You're comin' with me.” He nudged her down the ladder into the passage, caught her by the end of the rope where it trailed between her hands, and towed her after him down the dim, narrow corridor, a stream of men following hard on their heels.
She couldn't see any way out of this coil. Fear threatened to overcome her, but she beat it back, willed herself to an outward calm. Inside, however, she quivered with terror. The image of Rannulf, falling beneath a crushing blow, replayed itself in her mind. That vision, coupled with concern for her people, left her little energy to fear for herself.
Besides, if they wanted to take her hostage, they clearly didn't intend to harm herânot yet, at least.
It seemed that Nicholas was right after all. Taking her captive was the reason for the raids.
But who was behind it all?
Chapter Twenty-Three
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O
nce her eyes had adjusted to the bright sunlight after she emerged from the cave, Gillian stared at her cousin, who stood, outfitted and armed for war, at the head of the path. Unlike his men, he looked clean, unsullied by the filth of battle. “Steffan, you always were a cowardly bastard,” she muttered.
A scowl marring the handsome lines of his face, he shook his head. “Is that any way for a lady to speak?” He motioned her captor away and reached for her leash himself, his mouth quirked into a mocking smile. “I expected better of you. I'll forgive you this time, for I'm sure you've had a difficult morning.”
How she'd love to slap that taunting expression from his face!
But since she could not, she'd have to be satisfied with meeting his covetous gaze with her own stubborn hatred.
“My lady, I trust your mood will improve soon,” he said, his tone a warning. “Come, we cannot tarry here.” He tugged her at a headlong pace down the rocky hillside toward the horses tethered by the pool, frowning when she stumbled. He pulled her onto her feet and into motion again. “Don't worryâI'll return you to your home soon, I promise you. I hadn't planned on FitzClifford and Talbot amassing so large a force, or on them arriving this soon. Otherwise I'm sure you and I would already be happily settled within, without all this bother your Norman captors have caused me.”
She'd have liked to throttle him, simply to stop his chatter. She went cold inside when his words sank into her fear-dulled brain and she realized how much he knew about their business. How did he know?
Who was the spy?
Steffan stopped near his showy stallion, stepping out of the way when another man came forward and hefted her into the saddle of a horse beside her cousin's. “I cannot risk overburdening my mount,” he told her. “Though it means I will have to wait before I'm able to enjoy your company more... intimately.”
She would gladly wait forever before that day arrived, though she doubted she'd have that choice. Her flesh crawled from the mere thought, however. Squirming, she tried to untwist her skirts and settle them to cover her legs, a difficult task since her hands remained bound tightly. When she'd done what she could and looked up, Steffan sat atop his mount, struggling to bring the restive animal under control.
The line of men streaming down the hillside came to an end, the last man hauling along a woman in his wake. “Marged, are you unharmed?” Gillian asked when they stopped at the foot of the hill and she recognized the woman.
Why had they brought her from the keep, and no one else?
“Help me, milady!” the maid pleaded, her eyes full of terror. And betrayal?
“Kill her,” Steffan ordered before putting spurs to his mount and riding into the forest.
“No!” Gillian tried to guide her horse with her knees and her weight to reach the maid before they could carry out Steffan's command, but all she managed was to send the animal edging sideways. The man behind Marged slashed his knife across her throat before she'd a chance to struggle, then left her crumpled on the grass, her body spattered with her own blood.
The sight proved too much for Gillian's already-churning stomach. She turned away, leaned over the side of the horse and vomited.
Head hanging, she closed her eyes and tried, unsuccessfully, to will away the sick feeling.
“You through?” a man asked.
Still bent over, she opened her eyes, turned her head and saw him standing beside her mount. “I don't know,” she whispered, not daring to risk sitting up straight quite yet.
“You'd better be, because we have to go. I don't intend to stop every few feet for you,” he warned her. “I haven't the patience, and we don't have time for it. You'd better not be sick on me, either.” He shoved her upright, swung behind her in the saddle and gathered the reins in one hand. “From what I've heard of you I thought you'd be stronger than that.”
She'd thought so, too. She used to be. Would carrying a child turn her weak, she wondered?
Assuming she lived long enough to find out.
His words had sounded as though they came from far away. Gillian swayed until he caught her and pressed her back against his brawny chest, then surrendered to the wave of blackness washing over her.
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Rannulf came to his senses in the gatehouse, his brother and Sir Henry kneeling by his side. “Never would have believed a little tap like that would put you out cold,” Connor observed. “Perhaps you're not as tough as I thought.”
Narrowing his eyes, Rannulf glared and sat up, leaning against the blessedly cool stone wall until his head stopped whirling. “'Twould scarce have made a mark on
your
head, you brawny foolâno doubt you've developed that as well as the rest of you.”
“Are you all right lad?” Sir Henry asked.
“He must be, if he can bait me,” Connor said. He grinnedâan expression Rannulf hadn't seen on his brother's face since they were young boysâand clapped Rannulf on the shoulder. “I've changed a bit.”
Rannulf grunted as the echo of Connor's meager blow reverberated through his head. “That you have.” He reached back and gingerly touched the lump at the back of his neck. It hurt like the devil, but it wasn't the first bump on the head he'd received, and he doubted 'twould be the last. “Is the battle over?”
Connor nodded. “Aye. They cleared out fast shortly after you fell.” He motioned for Rannulf to lean forward, and slapped a cold, wet cloth on the bruise. “It's a wonder they didn't break your neck. You should have worn your helm.”
“I doubt it would have made much difference.” Rannulf looked past his twin and saw Nicholas heading for them, his expression grim. He stood, somehow managing not to sway. “How did we fare?”
Nicholas halted in front of him. “They've got Gillian,” he said, his grim tone matching his expression. “Other than that, we've come through surprisingly well.”
“By Christ, I'llâ” Rannulf's knees felt ready to collapse. He wavered on his feet; Nicholas took him by the arm and eased him back to lean against the wall. “Sit, you fool, so you can focus your energies on planning how we'll get her back.”
Keeping his back pressed against the rough stones, he slipped down to sit. “Do we know who took her?”
“Aye, milord,” Sir Henry said. “Though we never saw the coward behind all thisânot that I'm surprised.” He shook his head. “He's too fainthearted to put himself at risk, the bastard.”
“Who is it?” Rannulf demanded.
“Steffan ap Rhys.” Sir Henry spit out the words as though they left a foul taste in his mouth. “Many's the time I warned her about him, told her not to tease himâ” He looked away, his face old suddenly.
“Why are you still here, then? Shouldn't you be out chasing him down?”
“Calm yourself,” Nicholas said sharply. “If we'd a chance in hell of catching up to them, the rest of us would have left even before you came to your senses. But we didn't realize she was gone until after the attackers had retreated. We couldn't find her. Once the villagers calmed down, a young woman said she'd seen a Welshman dragging Gillian through the bailey and into the keep. Seems she tried to get to her to stop him, but in the press of things, all she got for her pains was trampled in the crush. She's not like to survive,” he added, his voice grim. “But she managed to tell Ella what happened when they were treating her injuries.”
Rannulf said a silent prayer of thanks for the woman's loyaltyâand that she might recover.
“My apologies, Nicholas,” Rannulf said. “I should have realized you'd not leave Gillian in Steffan's hands any longer than necessary without a reason.”
Desperation filled him. He cudgeled his already battered brain for information, to recall what he knew, what he'd seen in the thick of the fighting. “How did they take her? She should have been safe inside the keep.” He closed his eyes, remembered hearing her voice screaming his name. “Was she in the bailey?”
“Aye. Some of them came into the keep through a certain passageway.” Nicholas's grim expression turned cold. “Seems my servant, Richard, knew of the route to the pool from his whore. I gather she must have seen youâand Gillianâcome through it at some point. He'll not betray us again, I vowânor will she,” he added. “It seems they outlived their usefulness.”
By the rood, had his carelessness led to Gillian's abduction? To the carnage, the dead and wounded he could see out in the bailey?
Telling himself his own injury was no more than he deserved, Rannulf rose to his feet and walked out into the bright sun. “Do we know where he took her?” he asked, squinting when the light threatened to cleave his head in two.
“Back to his lair in Wales, I would guess,” Nicholas said. “Likely he doesn't believe we'd follow him there.” He gazed into the distance for a moment. “He'd be right about that, too, for we can hardly lead an army through the area.”
“Why not? I just did,” Rannulf pointed out. “We cannot leave her with him!” Frustration made him want to snarl and snap, but that would help nothing, might even harm their chances of freeing Gillian.
“Come with me,” Nicholas suggested, and led the way to the room that sat on top of the gatehouse tower. “There's naught but chaos everywhere else,” he said, motioning for them to sit on the benches lining one wall. “You led a troop of men, true, but there weren't many, and they weren't traveling as a war party.” He leaned against the wall and sighed. “The situation between the king and Llywelyn is unsettled as it is. I cannot drag an army into Wales and attack one of Llywelyn's kinsmen. Not even to save Gillian,” he added when Rannulf opened his mouth to protest.
“Can't you go to Llywelyn, ask if he'll order the man to release her?” Connor asked. “It hardly seems right that he could remove a noblewoman from her own castle without some punishment for it.”
Restless, Rannulf stood and gingerly paced the confines of the small chamber. “It would take too long,” he said. He stopped by the window and gazed down into the bailey, the destruction he saw angering him anew. “Besides, lanâGillian's Welsh cousin who sent some men to help us,” he told Connor. “Ian said that Llywelyn wouldn't help Gillian before we arrived, didn't even reply to her request. I don't know that we could trust him to favor Gillian over Steffan.”
“Then we need some way to get into Steffan's holding and rescue her ourselves,” Connor said.
Rannulf turned to his brother. “We?”
“Of course. You don't think I'm going to go back to my placid existence at FitzClifford when there's adventure to be had here, do you?” Connor asked. “Besides, I'm assuming
this
Gillian is
your
Gillian, the woman you told Mother and me you intended to marry years ago.”
“Aye.” Rannulf stole a wary glance at his overlord, whose expression of mild interest looked at odds with the curiosity in his eyes.
“I cannot, in all conscience, permit my future sister by marriage to languish in captivity,” Connor assured him.
“He's right. We cannot leave her in Steffan's hands for long,” Nicholas said. He pushed away from the wall and crossed to stand before Rannulf. “There are many reasons we need to get Gillian away from Steffan, reasons I'm sure you realize, but there's another you don't know about.” He stared out the window for a moment before fixing Rannulf with a stern look. “A most important reason. Gillian is carrying your child.”
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Gillian came to her senses soon after they rode into the heavily wooded hills beyond the northern boundaries of I'Eau Clair. She recognized the area, having passed through it the one time she'd traveled to Wales to visit Catrin. Steffan's manor lay close to Ian's keep at Gwal Draig, she thought, though she knew nothing about it.
She prayed 'twas a manor house, and not a walled keep or some other fortification. Otherwise, she couldn't imagine how she'd manage to escape from it.
Or how Nicholas could rescue her.
She still held out hope that Rannulf had survived that brutal blow to the head, but she couldn't imagine he'd be in any condition to fight.
Her stomach gave an ominous shudder. “Stop, now,” she blurted out. “Please.”
Her captor took one look at her face and leapt from the saddle, pulling her down after him just in time for her to be wretchedly ill in the bushes.
“Thank you,” she said weakly once she was able to stand. “I'm sorryâI cannot help it.”
Steffan trotted back along the trail toward them, his face dark with anger. “Why did you stop?” he snarled.
“'Twas my fault,” she said. “I'm...my stomach is not well,” she told him. Should she tell him why?