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Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

Page 54

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Their horses climbed a steep rise, and Jerval raised his hand for a halt behind some boulders that had scrubby oak trees growing in amongst them. Stretched before them was a wasteland of rocky, shallow hills dotted only with splashes of green moss. Jerval looked again behind them, tightening his grip on Pith’s reins. The man trailing them had shortened the distance and was now riding but a mile behind them, his horse holding a steady pace.

“Let us wait for the fellow,” he said to his men. “I wish to know what manner of fool he is.”

They watched the man ride through a narrow stretch of road, bounded on each side by desolate heaps of rocks. They realized that he didn’t see the four riders gallop from behind the rocks until they had formed a half circle around him. From where he sat, Jerval could hear their banshee cries as they swung their claymores in great arcs through the air.

“God’s blood,” Jerval shouted, “it’s certain now that the fellow isn’t one of them. It is four Scots against one. Don’t they know that we are not that far ahead of them? Are they stupid?”

Mark said, “Evidently they don’t know. Whoever he is, he’s a fool, likely a dead one very soon. Can you imagine riding out here by yourself? At least he’s brought them out into the open for us.”

“We might as well try to save the fellow,” Jerval said. He w

hipped Pith about, dug his heels fiercely into his destrier’s sides and galloped back down the hill. He was yelling at the top of his lungs, as were his men, hopeful of turning the Scots’ attention toward them and away from the single man.

CHAPTER 17

“Ye wish to taste death, do ye?”

Chandra nearly fell off her horse in shock to see the ferocious-looking Scot riding right at her, his huge claymore stretched above his head, a wide grin splitting his bearded face.

She felt equal amounts of fear and excitement pour through her. She yelled at him, “Come then, you ugly bastard. You will feel my sword cold in your guts!”

But she had no time to pull her sword from its scabbard, for the four men were closing swiftly about her.

“It’s but a boy, lads,” one of the Scots shouted. “Look at his pretty, smooth face! Just a little nipper, coming to find us.”

“Aye, a wee English bastard.”

“Let’s slice him up and take his horse. He’s old, but he’s sound.”

Four of them. Too many, too many. They were Scots, savages, without honor. They were the ones Jerval was hunting.

They had formed a loose circle around her, coming no closer; even that huge, ugly one had drawn back. They were taunting her, waiting, she guessed, for her to lunge at one of them so that the others could slash at her back. No, it was simpler than that. They wanted her to drop her weapons and give up. They didn’t want to take a chance of harming her horse.

She didn’t move, just held the roan steady. The man she thought was their leader—he was a large man with a thick black beard and long black hair that flowed over his shoulders, eyes as black as a moonless night.

She whipped her horse to face him. “Are you so afraid of one man that you must hang back? I see now that you are naught but a worthless pack of scavengers. Cowards, the whole lot of you.”

“Aiee, Alan,” one of the men cried, “yer brave lad calls us cowards. What think ye o’ that? Let me take him.” He lashed his horse toward her, and Chandra turned to meet him. She slashed at him with her sword, and felt the blade tear into his arm. He lurched back, grabbing his arm, yelling, and she saw blood spurting out between his fingers. Chandra felt her wool cap suddenly jerked from her head, and her long, thick braid fell free down her back.

Jerval recognized the roan stallion in the next instant. It was Thunder, old now, but strong, steady, still valuable. He saw the man slash out at one of the Scots, draw blood, but then another of them closed behind him and jerked off his cap. A thick golden braid swung free.

By all the saints, it was Chandra.

No, no, it simply couldn’t be his wife, that damned stubborn girl he’d locked in their bedchamber to keep her safe. Instant fear froze the blood in his veins.

But he wasn’t surprised. He was many thing in that moment, but no, he wasn’t surprised. He closed his eyes a moment against the fear of it.

He cursed even as he prayed that her hair would save her life. No man—even a Scot—would want to stick his sword through a woman. No, a man would want to rape a woman, not kill her.

“A girl,” Alan Durwald shouted. “It’s a bloody girl.” He could not believe his eyes, and his men pulled their horses back, gaping at her in surprise. Alan slewed his head about to see the mounted Englishmen bearing down on them, their swords at the ready. They’d used this girl for bait? She was their tethered goat? He hated the English to his very soul, always had, but he had never imagined they could be so devious, so conniving.

He gazed for a moment at that beautiful dirty face, recognized the wild fury in her eyes for what it was. What was going on here? He reached out his hand and grabbed her long braid, pulling her off balance. With his other hand, he brought his knife down and severed part of the braid.

Chandra tried to pull away, but in the next instant, the man Alan had smashed his horse against hers, jerked her out of her saddle and thrown her facedown over his thighs. Her sword went spinning from her hand and clattered to the rocky ground. He ripped the quiver off her shoulder and flung it away.

“Let’s be gone, lads, quickly, quickly.” Alan Durwald knew they had but a few moments to escape the Englishmen galloping furiously toward them. “Aye, it’s a marvelous prize we’ve won this trip!”

Chandra yelled at the top of her lungs and tried to rear up, but he smashed his hand down, pinning her.



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