Martyr's Fire (17 page)

“Sit her up properly,” barked a voice that barely penetrated Katherine’s haze of anguish. “She’ll only slow our horses if you leave her across the saddle like a sack of potatoes.”

Fumbling hands lifted and propped her in a sitting position and guided Katherine’s hands to the edge of the saddle. She was too far in her grief to care, too far to fight.

Her mind and heart were so heavy with sorrow that when her tear-blinded eyes suddenly lost all vision, it took her a moment to realize that someone had thrown a hood over her eyes.

Totally blind, she now had no chance to attempt escape on the horse they had provided her.

Then came a sharp whistle, and her horse moved forward slowly. Each step took her farther away from the final sight she would carry always in her mind, that of Hawkwood silent and unmoving among the ruins of camp.

Eventually, the tempo quickened and the steady plodding of her horse became a canter. Katherine had to hold the front edge of the saddle tight with her bound hands and sway in rhythm to keep her balance.

She could hear her own breathing rasp inside the hood as she struggled to keep her balance in the total darkness that blinded her.

By the slow drumming of hooves, she knew other horses were now beside her, instead of front and back, and from that she knew the trail had widened. Soon, they would be at the main road that led into York.

How far, then?

She and Hawkwood—she felt sharp pain twist her stomach to think of him—had walked several hours along the main road yesterday. That meant less than an hour on horseback to York. There … She shut her mind. To think of what lay ahead was to be tortured twice—now and when it actually occurred. And once would be too much.

Would she have a chance to make Thomas pay for his treachery? Even if it was only an unguarded second to lunge at him and rake her nails down his face? Or a chance to claw his eyes?

The cantering of the horses picked up pace.

Her own anger started to burn like venom.

Thomas had arranged this. He had trapped them and led Hawkwood to death. If only there might be a moment to grab a sword and plunge it

—Without warning, the lead horse screamed.

Even as the first horse’s scream died, there were yells of fear and the thud of falling bodies and then the screams of men.

Because of the hood over her head, Katherine’s world became a jumble of dark confusion as her own horse stumbled slightly, then reared with panic. The sudden and unexpected motion threw Katherine downward to the ground at the side of the horse.

A roar of pounding hooves filled her eyes, and she felt something brush the side of her head.

The horses behind her! Would she be trampled?

Dust choked her gasp of alarm. More thunder of hooves, then a terrible crack of agony that seemed to explode her head into fragments of searing fire.

Then nothingness.

The light tickle of a butterfly woke Katherine as it settled on her nose. By the time she realized the identity of the intruder, it had already folded its wings shut.

Despite the deep throb in her head, Katherine suppressed a giggle. Her eyes watered from the effort of crossing them to focus on the butterfly, and even then, the butterfly was little more than a blur of color a scant inch away.

In any other situation, this would be a delight.
Such a gentle creature honors me with its visit
.

Her memory of the immediate past events returned slowly as the terrible throbbing lessened.

Hawkwood, dead. The procession of horses back toward York. Then a terrible confusion. Her fall. Unconsciousness. And now—

And now she could see. The hood no longer covered vision.

Katherine turned her head. Slowly. Not because of the resting butterfly on her nose. But because dizziness filled her stomach at the slight movement.

She discovered she was sitting. Rough bark pressed against her back. Her hands … her hands were free.

She brought them up, almost in amazement at the lack of pain biting tightly into her wrists. That movement was enough to startle the butterfly into graceful flight.

“The woman-child wakes,” a voice said. “And with such prettiness, it is no surprise that even the butterflies seek her attention.”

Katherine tensed. The voice belonged to a stranger behind her. Before she could draw her legs in to prepare to stand, he was in front of her, offering a hand to help her rise.

“M’lady,” he said. “If you please.”

If the man meant harm, he would have done it by now, she told herself. But what had occurred to bring her here in such confusion?

When she stood, aware of the rough calluses on the man’s hand, she saw the aftermath of that confusion, beyond his shoulders, on the trail between the trees.

Two horses, unnaturally still, lay on their sides in the dust. Several others were tethered to the trunks of nearby trees. She counted four men, huddled at the edge of the trail. Their groans reached her clearly.

“It’s really just an old trick,” the man confessed modestly, snapping her attention back to him. “We yanked a rope tight across the bend. Knee-high to their horses. These fools were traveling in such a tight bunch and at such a speed that when the leaders fell, so did all the others, including you. I offer my apologies for the bandage across your head, but it was a risk we had to take. And we did not know you would be hooded.”

Katherine gingerly touched her skull and found a strip of cloth bound just above her ears.

“It was not serious,” the man said quickly. “The bandage is merely a precaution.”

“Of course,” Katherine murmured.

The man shrugged and grinned at her study of his features.

His eyes glinted good humor from beneath shaggy dark eyebrows. His nose was twisted slightly, as if it had been broken at least once, but it did not detract from a swarthy handsomeness, even with a puckered X-shaped scar on his right cheek. His smile, even and white, was proof he was still young, or had once been noble enough to enjoy a diet and personal hygiene that—unlike the diet and hygiene of the less fortunate—did not rot teeth before the owner had reached thirty years of age.

Indeed, traces of nobility still showed in his clothes. The ragged purple
cape had once been exquisite, and his balance and posture were that of a confidence instilled by money and good breeding. His shoulders, however, were broad with muscles born of hard work, and the calluses on his hands had not come from a life of leisure. Altogether, an interesting man.

He interrupted her inspection.

“Your friend Hawkwood, I presume, escaped?”

His smile faltered as a spasm of grief crossed Katherine’s face.

“That,” he said gently, “is answer enough.”

Katherine nodded. She was spared the embarrassment of showing a stranger unconcealed tears because of someone calling from behind them.

“Robin,” a man cried. “Come hither.”

He beckoned her to follow and turned to move to the voice. Together, they moved deeper into the trees and moments later entered a small clearing.

Katherine blinked in surprise. The remainder of the enemy’s horses were gathered here. Isabelle sat on one, the two enemy knights on others, and Thomas on the fourth. Each was securely bound with ropes around their wrists. A dozen other men—not of the enemy group—stood in casual circles of two or three among the horses.

“Robin, it is high time we disappeared in the forest,” the same voice said.

Katherine identified its owner as an extremely fat and half-bald man in a brown priest’s robe.

“Yes, indeed,” Robin replied. “The lady seems fit enough to travel.” He paused. “Those by the road. They have the ransom note?”

The fat man nodded. “Soon enough they will find the energy to mount the horses we have left for them.”

“They’re lucky to be alive,” spat another man. “I still say we should not bother with this nonsense about the lord’s gold.”

Robin laughed lightly. “Will, the rich serve us much better when alive.” Robin motioned at Isabelle, who sat rigidly in her saddle. “The daughter alone is worth three years’ wages.”

Robin turned to Katherine.

“Yes,” he said in a low voice. “We did promise to help Hawkwood by capturing Thomas. But we made no promise about neglecting profit, did we? And although the arrival of these men of York have complicated matters, there is now that much more to be gained by selling these hostages for ransom.”

He lifted his eyebrows in a quizzical arch. “After all, as one of the most wanted of the king’s branded outlaws, I can’t be expected to be sinless.”

Their southward march took them so deep into the forest that Katherine wondered how she might find her way back to any road. The man she knew as Robin led the large but silent procession of outlaws and captives on paths almost invisible among the shadows cast by the towering trees.

It was a quiet journey, indeed almost peaceful. Sunlight filtered through the branches high above them and warmed their backs. The cheerful song of birds seemed to urge them onward.

Twice they crossed narrow rivers, neither deep enough to reach Katherine’s feet as she sat secure on the horse Robin had provided. The men on foot had merely grinned and splashed through the water behind her. Katherine hoped each time that Thomas would topple from his own horse and flounder in the water with his hands bound as they were.

Never will that traitor be forgiven
.

Again and again as they traveled, she reviewed the morning’s horror. How had Thomas accomplished it? By prearranging his campsite so that the enemy knights knew exactly where to appear?

Again and again, she fired molten glances of hatred at Thomas’s back. Of course Thomas had known the saddlebag had been leaking flour. To be followed so easily had made his task of flushing them out that much easier. How he must have chuckled as he waited for them in his camp.

Katherine needed to maintain the hatred. Without it to fill her, she would have to face the loss of Hawkwood. Without the hatred to consume
her, she would have to focus on the struggle ahead. Yet even with the rage to distract her, questions still managed to trouble her.

With Thomas captured, what was she to do next? Without Hawkwood to guide her, what hopes had she of carrying on the battle against the Druids?

Each time those questions broke through her barrier of hatred, she moaned softly in pain and forced herself to stare hatred at Thomas’s back.

It was after such a moan that the outlaw Robin halted the lead horse. He dismounted, then walked past all the others to reach Katherine.

“M’lady,” he began, “we will leave all the horses here and move ahead on foot.”

He answered the question without waiting for her to ask it. “A precaution. We near our final destination. The marks of horses’ hooves are too easy to follow.” Robin gestured to an outlaw. “Will shall lead the horses to safer grounds.”

Katherine nodded, then accepted the hand that Robin offered to help her down from her horse.

“My apologies again,” Robin said. “For you, as well as the others, must be blindfolded during the final part of our journey.” His grin eased her alarm. “Another precaution. When the king’s outlaws hide within the king’s forests, it is only natural that we hesitate to show hostages—or visitors—to the paths to our camp.”

Although none of the outlaws hesitated to call to one another across the camp, their voices were muted with caution.

It could have been the hush of the forest, however. The great trees in all directions blocked whatever wind there might be; the air in their shade was a blanket of stillness.

In the outlaws’ camp, small campfires appeared in all directions as the
shadows deepened with approaching dusk. At some, there was low singing of ballads. At others, the games of men at rest—arm wrestling, joke telling, and quiet laughter.

The fire at the center of the camp was much larger than any other. Beside it, turning the spit that held an entire deer over the flames, was the fat and half-bald man in a priest’s robe. His face gleamed with sweat in the dancing firelight. In his free hand he held a jug of beer he replenished often from the cask beside him. A steady parade of men approached with jugs of their own for the same purpose.