Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

She didn’t move, just smiled at him.

“Aye, I believe ye’re right, Alaric,” Robbie Durwald said. “I believe I would like to have a lady serve me ale. What think ye, men?”

“Robbie,” Alaric said, coming forward to lightly touch his hand to the man’s forearm. “We don’t want to remain at Oldham any longer than we have to. Sir Mark and Sir Jerval aren’t stupid. We got them out of here, but they will realize what happened, that we doubled back, and they will come back. We must take Lady Mary’s dowry gold and leave, now.”

“They’re English, Alaric, just like you. They’re stupid and thoughtless. Just ye look—they left two ladies here unprotected at Oldham. What man would leave his lady unprotected?”

“She’s not a lady. I have heard the men talk of her. They say that she fights as well as they do, that she shows no mercy, that she will run a sword through your belly, smiling all the time. We must leave, Robbie, we must.”

“Ye bore me, Alaric. As I said, ye English are stupid filthy louts.” He turned slowly about to face Alaric, slipped a thin-bladed knife from his belt and, fast as a snake, slid it into his chest. “Go to hell,” Robbie said, watching Alaric’s eyes go wide and unseeing as he fell silently to the stone floor.

“Now, lady, for that is what ye are, despite yer boy’s clothes, I wish ye to fetch me some ale. Aye, and ye will serve me, and then maybe ye’ll sit on my knee and I’ll let ye beg me for yer little life and that of Lady Mary. Aye, and I’ll see that hair of yers. Alan had a foot of it wrapped around his wrist. Yer husband took it from him when he killed him. Where is Lady Mary?”

“Alaric was wrong. Sir Mark sent her through the postern gate, to Camberley, to safety.”

“If I find her, and I will look very soon now, then I will kill her right in front of ye. Believe me, for I do not lie.”

“Mary,” Chandra said very quietly. “Come out.”

Slowly, Mary came from beneath the trestle table. Slowly, she stood.

“Ah, she carries a babe, does she? Sir Mark seduced ye, little one? Planted a babe in yer belly? But he married ye—a good man, all say, but I don’t care about that.”

Mary stood straight and tall, her chin up. She said, her voice loud and clear, “My husband will kill you.”

Robbie Durwald threw his head back and laughed. “He’s not here, if ye’ll notice, my lady. He’s probably near the border by now, chasing shadows and clouds.”

“It’s nearly daylight now,” Chandra said.

“Aye, and he’ll ride and ride because that’s what he’s supposed to do, thinking he will see us fleeing like cowards just over the next rise. An Englishman’s brain can’t work as quickly as a Scot’s.”

“As well as your brother’s worked?” It was out of her mouth before she could curse herself. She held herself very still. She had to keep him there, talking, bragging, because she knew to her bones that Jerval would come. And this wasn’t the way to do it.

Robbie Durwald jerked about to face her. “Ye don’t sully my brother’s name, hear ye? Ye don’t insult him.”

She couldn’t help herself, just couldn’t. “He was the cowardly one. He came at Sir John’s appeal to kill my husband, but my husband wasn’t stupid. He was waiting for him because he knew Sir John had betrayed us, and he trapped him in his own web and he killed him, just as he’ll kill you.”

“Ye think so? Go get me ale, wench, now.”

Mary said quickly, “I can call the servants to fetch you ale. I am very thirsty myself.”

“Nay,” said Robbie Durwald, “I want the lad to fetch it. Go, lad, or my knife slides into Lady Mary’s sweet belly.” He saw her determination, that steel that came from deep within her, and he remembered what his brother had said—“I wanted to break her, but I don’t know if I ever could have.” He pressed the tip of his knife against Mary’s stomach. “Now, drop that little knife and sword on the floor.”

Chandra didn’t want to give up her weapons, but there was no choice. Slowly, she bent down and laid the knife and sword side by side on the floor.

“Hurry, little lad, hurry.”

It gave them more time, Chandra thought, as she ran out of the Great Hall into the silent inner bailey. Durwald’s men shouted at her, but she ignored them. There were three servants in the kitchens, hiding behind flour bins. She told them to stay where they were and keep quiet. She picked up two pitchers of ale and all the goblets she could carry and brought them back to the Great Hall. If only she had some poison to pour into the ale, if only—but there was no time to search about. He would

hurt Mary if she didn’t hurry—she had no doubt about that at all.

When she came running into the Great Hall, it was to see Robbie Durwald standing even closer to Mary, his knife extended, its point resting just above her left breast. She saw him reach out his hand to touch her and something inside her broke. Once she had let Mary be raped, but not this time.

She ran as fast as she could, the men parting as she came. She raced to Robbie Durwald, and yelled, “Don’t you touch her, you bastard! Here!” And she threw a pitcher of ale in his face. His arm jerked up, and she kicked him square in his groin as hard as she could, grabbed the knife as it loosened in his fingers, and went down with him as he clutched himself and fell onto his knees. She jerked him up against her as he moaned and whimpered in agony, her arm tight around his neck.

“Now,” she said to his men over his moans, for she’d kicked him harder than she’d ever kicked a man in her life. He was nearly insensible with the pain, and for the moment he was helpless. She tightened her hold around his neck and lightly sliced his own knife across his throat. A thin line of blood welled up. His men stopped dead in their tracks.

“Robbie, what should we do?”