If the women remained his prisoners, there would be war.
But it mattered not. As long as they were safe. He sent up a prayer for their safety when the first arrow struck. Thwack! It pierced the tough bark of a yew tree. His horse reared. The air whistled and arrows rained. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Holding on to the reins in one hand, Hagan drew his sword.
His men scattered through the woods.
Another arrow screamed past his ear.
“Bloody Christ!”
With an agonizing wail, Jacob, one of his men, fell from his horse. Sir Benjamin stopped to help and was felled as well.
Hagan yanked hard on the reins, guiding Wind into the woods, searching the leafless cover of brambles and vines, squinting in the darkness. The two men were dead, two trusted knights, and his heart ached. He could not see his attackers, yet they were there in the woods, waiting, suddenly silent, their weapons, no doubt, at ready.
An eerie breeze rattled the branches of the trees overhead. The horses pranced nervously, coats shiny with sweat, eyes white-rimmed and wild.
Silently Hagan motioned to his men, spreading his arms and telling them without words to split into two groups in hopes of surrounding the attackers. The men did as they were bid, with Hagan leading one group and Kennard leading the other. Silently they moved through the black-barked trees, ears straining, mouths spitless.
Another arrow zinged past Hagan’s head, and still another. Kennard yelped as one of the deadly missiles ripped through his leggings. “God’s eyes,” he growled, yanking the damned arrow from his leg as he fell to the ground. Blood oozed up from the wound as more arrows screamed through the air.
“I’ll get him,” Winston said, and Hagan, knowing that he had to face his attackers, to unmask the men who were trying to kill him, agreed.
“Put him on his horse, get Jacob and Ben as well, then return, all of you, to Erbyn and wait for me.”
“Nay, we will not leave you—”
“And find the others!” Hagan ordered, his voice harsh. He would accept nothing less than complete obedience. “Tell Kennard to take his men and return as well.”
“But—”
“The outlaws will think I’ve gone with you. Now, go, before they find us.”
“I will not leave you,” Winston said, as Hagan sheathed his sword and dismounted.
Angrily, Hagan grabbed him by the front of his hauberk, the mail rattling between his fingers. His f
ace grew fierce. “’Tis an order, Sir Winston. Do as I say.”
“I cannot—”
“You will, Winston!” Hagan growled. Another arrow sizzled through the air, and Hagan’s nostrils flared with impatience. “Now!” He didn’t wait for his command to be answered, and took up the reins of his horse. He swung into the saddle and turned in to the deepest woods, through the shadows, racing against the faceless forest murderers who dared attack him. Gritting his teeth, he yanked suddenly on the reins, turning in to a gully where a creek washed over smooth stones. With the noise of the brook as his cover, he rode back in the direction from which he’d come, the horse wading through the water. Hagan held his bow at ready, in one hand, and his dagger, hidden in his boot, pressed cold and deadly against his leg. He hoped to come up behind those who had ambushed him, grab the leader by his hair, and press a knife to the blackheart’s throat. ’Twould be sweet vengeance.
Carefully he picked his way through the trees, pausing every few steps to listen, hoping to hear the quiet jangle of a bridle, the clearing of a throat, the plop of a heavy destrier’s hoof in the mud. But the noises and the men seemed to have vanished as quickly as they had come. He heard no shouts of victory, so he hoped that his men had been able to elude their attackers and return to Erbyn safely.
He rode along the creek bed when he noticed the footprints that appeared on the edge of the shore. Not often, but once in a while, as if someone had purposely tried to keep his tracks hidden, an impression of a boot was visible.
Hagan jumped down from his steed and touched the mud. The tracks were fresh; whoever he was following had been here not long before. A cruel smile played upon his lips. No doubt he’d found one of the outlaws. Who else would wander through this dense part of the forest? His fingers tightened around his bow as he walked the horse forward. Soon he would get some answers. Maybe then he’d learn of Sorcha. His heart twisted at the thought, for even now she might be in the hands of the outlaws. Would they treat her as a lady? Ransom her, but not harm her? Or would they be captivated by her beauty and, having not been with women in a long while, torture her and force her to lie with them?
His teeth gnashed together and he swore on his very life that if she was harmed, he would return that pain to her captors a hundredfold and they would beg for his mercy before he killed them slowly one by one.
It was fitting that he was in the woods near Tullia’s cottage, he thought. If needs be, he could rest and find shelter in the stone house, sharing it with the rats and vermin.
He circled up the hillside again, but found no one lurking in the forest, no sign of Sorcha nor the outlaws who had attacked him. He rode for several hours until what little sunlight there had been filtered away in the evening gloom.
Silently praying that Sorcha and her small band of rebels had made it to the gates of Prydd and were now safely tucked within the thick stone walls, he rode through the gorge. He had almost convinced himself that she was certainly fine when he came upon the horse—a white palfrey that had been stolen from the stables of Erbyn. The hairs lifted on the back of his neck as he walked up to the animal. Covered with mud, the mare had been through much. There was an arrow in her haunch and dried blood on her matted coat.
Hagan felt as if his world had stopped. They’d been captured or killed. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own name. Bloody Christ, what a waste. Grief swallowed him and he felt as if his soul were being ripped from his body. “Sorcha,” he whispered, his eyes hot.