Lady Trent (39 page)

“—have they asked if you are with child?” He
asked quietly close to her ear knowing they were likely being
heard.

“No,” she whispered back to him.

“As we communicate, you must speak as if you
are with child, and you must not refer to me by anything other than
Marty. Can you remember to do this?”

She nodded her head quickly. “Yes.”

He breathed with relief, simply glad to be
there with her, to be holding her alive and well. “Be calm,” he
advised her. “In your heart know that you will live. I promise
it.”

They pulled away from one another again.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, just a few. With his thumbs he
wiped them away, and without a thought, he pulled her face to his
and kissed her lips. “Rachel,” he said, and then again kissed her.
“Rachel, Rachel, my dear Rachel. Have they harmed you?”

“No.” Her eyes searched his, and once again,
their lips pressed together and they embraced. “I am so glad you
are here,” she said. “I was frightened. Why is this happening? What
are they doing? Who are these men?”

“Think on these things another time. For now,
be at peace. All will be well. You must believe so.”

“You were correct to warn me. Yet I…I did not
listen.”

“Do not think about it now, or even
ever.”

“And I scolded you. Now I see. I was such a
fool not to trust you, even knowing how much Jacob entrusts you
with even his very life.”

He squeezed her upper arms. “Try to be calm,”
he whispered, hating to see her in such a shape, and racking his
mind, wondering how long these men would allow him to be there with
her, deciding he could not leave her. He could not. He would fight
his way out if need be. He would not leave this very spot without
her.

“Who has done this?” She asked. “And
why?”

“It is an enemy of Jacob’s. They would
release you in exchange for him, but we must not allow it. I must
not,” he corrected. “I must not let Jacob trade himself for you. He
will die, I know. Possibly in the cruelest way.”

“We may all die.”

“No,” he disagreed. “You mustn’t think that
way. You must be strong.”

“How? What do I do?”

“What you have always done, milady,” he said,
and with very sad eyes kissed her again. He pulled away and said,
“Pray. You must pray.”

******

The news had reached Jacob, and his roar of
anger echoed throughout all the palace.

How could this have happened? How could this
be and why?

He received the first report…from the maiden
Zaria who’d made it to him shortly before Marty. Jacob instantly
gathered together a small army, thinking quickly and commanding
them on what to do. They did not travel together, but in distances,
and faraway places at every angle, and had all been trained to
handle such situations, to strike suddenly, secretly without being
seen. How was he to know if the culprits were watching from every
angle themselves, even despite the agreement to hand her over in
exchange for him? They could attack at any given moment. But not
like this, not if they were wise. He’d planted a generous number of
men in regiments all about him, sending them out by groups, some
ahead of him as he intended to travel swiftly. He could not help
ride swiftly…he and Marty together off to themselves trusting that
those surrounding from distances would keep any harm from befalling
him ahead of time. An image of his dear, beloved wife stayed fixed
in his mind…one of her as he’d last seen her and another of this
and whatever condition she was in. Trapped, no matter the case.
Held hostage. Possibly abused.

He sped his horse, his teeth ground together.
Marcus, damn him. He should have protected her. He’d failed. How
could this have happened? How?

“How?” He came to ask aloud. “Damn him,
how?”

“He did his best to protect her,” Marty
defended, although with little emotion. “He fought, milord. Only he
sent the driver away who had been commanded to return with some
word from him, and possibly for instructions on what to do
next.”

“Then why did he not send him? Where, for the
love of god, did he send him to?”

“To Rylan to see if the life of the
handmaiden could be preserved. She had been injured, but still
lived.”

“To hell with the handmaiden.”

And to hell with Marcus, he thought to
himself, for making the situation even worse by going against the
commands of the captors, whomever they were. Time would tell. Yes,
he would hand himself over…but only in exchange for her
freedom.

******

A very long amount of time passed. How long
one could not tell. Although little communication passed between
them, they did purposely mention an unborn child—one that did not
exist. Food was brought to them. Not much, but enough. He didn’t
eat but encouraged her to do so, whispering in her ear from time to
time to mention the supposed child, and that it be nourished, that
she would eat for the sake of the child.

She did everything he said to do, becoming
weaker by the hour, however many had passed. It could have been
four, five or dozens. How could one tell? There was no light, only
from narrow slits in the top of the rock wall, a wall that as she
slept, Marcus observed, pacing the floor, racking his mind,
thinking of only one thing. Getting her out before Jacob could have
a chance to give himself up, to spare them both. To spare them
all.

She lay sleeping on the cot. Exhausted by the
circumstances. Dirty. Her hair all mangled and tangled.
Occasionally the man who kept the door would peep inside asking if
they were well. Yes, the story he had concocted about a child had
served to their benefit.

They wanted Jacob and badly.

He racked his mind on and off. If only he
knew exactly who was behind it. One could not tell by these men.
He’d never saw them before, not any of them. Not the first, not
those who’d stood afar, not the one who kept the door. What would
they do to Jacob if he fell into this same situation?

This now seemed more an act of revenge. He
thought about the king, the brother of the previous king whom Jacob
had beheaded for the emperor’s sake, and to serve as a reminder
that no such opposing activity would be tolerated. Yes, he thought
to himself, observing places here and there in the wall where the
rocks had chipped and cracked and broken with time. This had
nothing to do with the Great City. It was an act of aggregated
revenge. He continued to observe the wall, sharp points here and
there, and then Rachel, sleeping, and then his arm. He began to
react, not even thinking his thoughts specifically thru, but moving
with the ideas in his head; as his mind imagined…so he
spontaneously reacted, giving no place to mind over matter or any
consequence at all. Only the idea. The imagination. A prospect.

He glanced at the door, and then the wall,
and again his arm. Swiftly but quietly he rolled up his left sleeve
moving toward a very sharp point in the rock wall. He glanced at
the door one last time before closing his eyes, clenching his
teeth, raising a fist and then slicing his lower arm across the
sharp edge. His flesh stung. Pain coursed thru him, rippling every
inch of his being. He opened his eyes. Blood began to ooze out of
the self-inflicted wound. He inhaled a deep breath, grinding his
teeth together, and closed his eyes with one last, hard slice.

He nearly cried out from the pain, but kept
his teeth ground together and simply stood there a moment, adapting
to it. Without looking, eyes squeezed shut, he raised his other
hand, palm upward, and his heart triumphed in a way. The warmth of
his own blood filled his palm. He focused upon catching it, and
while his flesh did burn, he rushed to the spot where Rachel lay.
He knelt, taking hold of her skirts, pulling them upward while he
allowed the blood to freely fall and flow onto her skirts, and then
onto and thru her underclothing, the flesh between her legs where a
child could certainly be either born or lost. He moved his arm
slowly in a circular like motion, allowing his very own life to
seep onto and through her garments.

He did begin to feel weak, for a lot of blood
it was. The gash was not a small one. It was deep, and produced a
perfect amount of blood to cause a perfect scene. He rose, pulling
his sleeve down over the wound and pressing so as to prevent the
flow, and went to the door. He held his arm to the side, squeezing
together with his fingers the wound he’d created, and called out
very loudly to the guard, hoping he was near and had not ventured
away any place else.

His voice was such that it was instantly
hearkened to. The door swung open and Marcus instantly as if in a
state of panic, dashed toward her, saying, “She is losing it for
sure. The child. She is losing it.”

And just as his imagination had led him to
believe, the guard was alarmed. Quick strides brought him close to
her so that he had a very clear view of her condition. His eyes
rounded, for the amount of blood was substantial. And it was as he
slightly bowed to get this closer look, panic covering his
features, Marcus caught hold of his collar, punching him once in
the face while taking hold of his sword, and before he could arise,
Marcus pierced him thru the chest, clamping his other hand over his
mouth so that no sound could be heard from any distance. Blood
seeped from the corners of his mouth. Wide eyes stared into
Marcus’s. He gasped, his body going limp…and he died.

Rachel had stirred from the commotion, and
was terrified by the sight of this blood. She’d touched her skin
and raised her hand, breathing hard. And suddenly she was taken by
the arm, and her mouth was covered. Marcus held her backside
against his stomach telling her in the ear. “Be silent.”

His blood coursed thru his veins and his eyes
searched the doorway while his mind searched what lied beyond. He
recalled the layout of the structure, the separate ways one could
go, and very fleetingly wondered if the opposite direction would
lead out or to a dead end. It was too risky to try it. Better to go
the original where an exit was guaranteed.

“The blood is mine,” he said against her ear.
“Now we have our chance. You aren’t harmed.” He slowly lowered his
arm. His sleeve was now saturated, crimson red from all the blood.
He took Rachel by the wrist, pulling her with him to the door.
“Hold on to the back of my shirt,” he whispered, and then, “Hold on
tightly and do not let go.”

He peeped out from the door, and began
creeping up the passageway, Rachel doing just as he’d commanded. He
could feel her fist clenching his shirt. Her eyes were wide now,
and the sound of both her breath and his could be heard between
them. Her heart thumped with anticipation. There was hope. They
could escape.

It was not so difficult a task. Yes, the
hardest part was over. He once found himself face to face with
another man whom being caught off guard was not difficult to
overcome. Marcus merely thrust him thru the heart with the blade of
his sword. This happened twice. Two men he thrust thru, doing so
vengefully, caring not to take the life of such men as these.

On the outside, he cast his gaze about, and
swung her around to the outer side of the wall of the fort. He kept
them there for a moment, their backs pressed against the stone
wall, him telling her, “keep holding to my hand, Rachel. Do not let
go.”

And he simply listened. When she realized
that’s what he was doing, she listened as well, and could hear the
faint sound of men talking to one another…a sound that seemed to
get closer and closer but then trailed off as the two men speaking
moved further from where they were. Marcus scanned the area ahead,
knowing for certain that Jacob’s guards, those remaining alive from
the original incident, would not have fled the scene. They would
have stayed and watched so as to have some sort of report, not only
for the messenger of these criminals, but for Jacob as well.

He scanned the area closely, thankful that
his vision was perfect. It always had been, and for causes as these
he supposed he’d been so gifted.

Where would they be?

He was certain he saw a hand and something
white waving in the air. Yes, it was a sign. They were there, and
they would act where action was due, whatever action it would
be.

“When I say so, Rachel, you must run with me.
Run as hard and as fast as you can. Run as if you were running for
an unborn child. Run, as it means life or death for your
husband.”

He looked down at her feet. “Take off your
sandals.”

She did so swiftly, slipping them from her
feet.

“When I say,” he said, keeping his eye on
that movement up ahead, and noticing a second movement, that of
something white…another handkerchief, a sign that it was well for
them to go, and that there was protection for them. So soon as they
were safe, these men would attack.

“Run,” he said, and they darted away from the
wall, and with his teeth clenched, holding one hand to the sword
and the other her arm, he said it again, harshly this time,
“Run!”

And they did. Fast as they could. With all
their might. She could not recall having ever run so fast. They
heard as they came near the woods a man shout out from behind them,
from the fort…and it happened swiftly, those who remained from
Jacob’s guard came out from their hiding places and attacked.

In the woods, they both fell to the ground.
He did not let her loose. He did drop the sword as he saw with his
own eyes in the distance the guards taking the lives of the foes,
overcoming them one by one. He then loosed her arm. His entire
sleeve was now soaked, and much of his shirt as well. His breeches
and his face were also blotched with blood, mostly his own, some
belonging to his assailants.

“It’s done,” he said, feeling as if he would
pass out. He dropped his back to the ground and lied there staring
upward at a very blurry sky.