Ruthless (3 page)

o0o

If Magnus didna end the battle soon, he
feared his own strength would desert him. 'Twould bring him shame
if he didn't make a clean kill. Though the Highlanders had rightly
named him as ruthless, 'twas not for causing undue pain.

Too furious to put words together, Baldor
responded with curses and screams. With the iron shield protecting
most of his body, Magnus couldn't get in a killing blow. Finally,
he spied a likely way to defeat him. Never once had the burly man
spared a quick glance behind him. Magnus lunged and struck with all
his might, forcing him back.

Seeing Sweyn from the corner of his right
eye, Magnus tossed his sword at his commander's feet. Turning
slightly to the right to protect his side with his shield, he
yanked the flail from his hip and spun it, unwinding the chains in
swift movements. With great, arced swings, he battered the iron
shield. Shattering shock waves from each contact swept through his
shoulder and back.

Baldor thrust out with his sword when Magnus
made a sweeping backswing. Fresh blood flowed from Magnus'
underarm. Gritting his teeth, he brought the flail forward, wrapped
the morning stars around the steel blade and wrenched the sword out
of Baldor's grip.

The man screamed, cursed and grabbed for his
war hammer. Magnus continued beating his flail against the iron
shield. Each blow forced Baldor backward.

Magnus maneuvered him to where his men had
collected weapons from the fallen warriors. With Baldor's next
backward step, the flail flew around the edge of the iron shield
and sent him sprawling. The spikes held tight. Grunting with
exertion, Magnus wrenched the shield and sent it clattering across
the bloodied cobblestones.

Baldor struck at Magnus' legs with his war
hammer. When the heavy head cracked into Magnus' left thigh, it
threw him off-balance. He lurched to the side as Baldor sprang up,
hefting the hammer, preparing to thrust the iron spike atop the
hammerhead into Magnus chest.

The men shouted and cursed at the top of
their lungs.

Magnus swung again.

Both morning stars struck Baldor—one between
the eyes, the other at his temple.

"There goes Baldor," men shouted.

Baldor toppled and crashed much like a giant
tree struck by summer lightning.

A roar rang out, rolling on like claps of
thunder. It drowned out the sounds of Muriele and Ragnhild running
through the dense forest.

Magnus' men waded into the painful task as
they searched through the fallen and retrieved their wounded.
Honorable knights carried a misericord to spare a mortally wounded
comrade an agonizing death. Without hesitation, they used the thin
bladed daggers to deliver the finishing stroke.

Archers patrolled atop what was left of the
wall walks of Blackbriar.

Since the warrior's barracks had burned to
the ground, the bulk of Magnus' army returned to their tent camp
outside the castle walls. It would take days to bury the dead.

Once the sad chore was finished, he would
allow his men to claim a certain amount of spoils, depending on
rank, from the castle.

'Twas a shame a man like Baldor had become
its lord. He grimaced with disgust.

After the healer Grunda tended his wounds, he
ordered the women counted. As he expected, the total was two less
than the original reckoning.

Baldor's wife and daughter had been
there.

Somewhat relieved, he shrugged. He had not
truly decided what to do with them. Early in his first years at
Kinbrace, he had learned to keep his thoughts to himself. He didn't
believe women should pay for what some lout of a husband had done.
He had no doubt Olaf would have sampled them himself then thrown
them to the men before he finally slit their throats.

With Sweyn at his heels, Magnus wandered
around the keep, hiding his pain and fatigue. He propped his back
against the doorframe of Baldor's bedchamber and eased his weight
off his badly bruised leg as he gazed around the room. Chairs with
heavy tapestry cushions sat on either side of the fireplace. Two
straight-backed chairs stood close to a beautifully carved light
brown table. Tapestries on the walls gave the room a feeling of
warmth, as did clothes chests with forest scenes painted on their
lids.

He groaned on seeing the canopied bed with
its scarlet draperies. He would sleep well this night on its thick,
featherbed mattress. Alone. He thought of the tall, slender woman
said to have hair like wheat, silky skin and soft brown,
almond-shaped eyes. Had he not so many stitched cuts and swelling
bruises, he would set out to recapture her. He grimaced. 'Twas
fortunate for her he was too pain-wracked to track them down.

Stilling his face to hide a wince, he pushed
away from the doorframe and looked once more about the room. He
couldn't imagine a hulk of a man like Baldor in such stately
surroundings. An unwanted tinge of pity for Ragnhild swept his
mind, for her first husband had obviously been a man of a different
sort—one of refinement.

He passed through a door on the right side of
the bedchamber into the lord's solar. Its furnishings were much
like the previous room. Without the bed, from the looks of it.
Blackbriar must have had a master carpenter.

Noting another connecting door, he went over
to turn the handle. Locked from the other side, it did not open.
Curious, he went out through the door leading onto the landing and
found another entrance ten paces away. The women's hasty exit had
left the door ajar.

Inside was a smaller bedchamber, equally as
neat. Surely the Lady Muriele's room. Had she reason to lock her
door into the solar? 'Twas not surprising. Baldor had likely wanted
both mother and daughter. Bright-colored smocks and kirtles spilled
over the sides of an open chest. Others strewn about the floor
looked as if someone searched for a particular garment but did not
find it.

Beside the bed stood a small table cluttered
with the many things all women liked. Ribbons shimmered in a silky
heap, and without thought, he picked them up. Enjoying the silky
feel and the sight of the brilliant colors, he spilled them from
one hand to the other. He gently put them back where they had been,
then studied the small bits of jewelry beside them. Naught but some
ornaments with small combs attached to sweep hair off the face,
several decorated circlets to place around the head and a pewter
pin with a likeness of Blackbriar etched on it. He twirled it
around and around, before deciding it likely held a lady's draped
plaid to the shoulder of her kirtle.

A stoneware pot painted around the outer
sides with birds of brilliant colors caught his eye. He found it
filled with a soft soap smelling of fresh apples and spices. He
closed his eyes and breathed in the scent.

An image of the girl formed in his mind. A
graceful lass lounged back in a steaming tub as her long, elegant
fingers scooped out a portion of the soap.

He pictured her as she lathered moist, naked
breasts, stroking her nipples 'til they hardened and jutted,
awaiting the next touch. Her head fell back spilling golden brown
hair over the tub's rim until it brushed the floor. When she opened
heavy-lidded eyes filled with searing passion, she reached out her
hand and beckoned to him. Water dripped off her arm and spilled
onto the floor. His stones grew heavy and heated; his cock swelled
and throbbed. As he pictured her naked woman's place framed with
golden hair floating in the clear, warm water, his demented cock
jerked upward and near bruised his belly.

He snapped his eyes open to keep from
spilling his seed.

Lucifer's horned balls! Too many days had
passed since he'd swived a woman. Frustration filled him, for he
would not allow himself to sample any of the women. What he denied
his men, he denied himself.

He snorted. 'Twas not much of a sacrifice. He
didn't want just any woman. He wanted a woman with fine taste. One
of softness and beauty.

Forcing himself to ignore his aching stones,
he went to the corner washstand. Pots and combs stood beside the
basin. A small clay bowl caught his interest. Inside, little
remained of a foul-smelling paste. His nose wrinkled. What was its
purpose? His answer came when he spied a comb stained brown with
the same mixture.

Huh! The women had been wise. 'Twas why he
didna see their light-colored hair. He should have been more
observant and checked for such a ploy. He shrugged. No matter. They
would not live long in the wild.

When he turned to leave the room, he
hesitated, looking at the soft finery strewn about the woman's
clothing chest. He turned to Sweyn, patiently waiting in the open
doorway.

"Have a squire ask amongst the women and find
the ladies' maidservants. Have them gather the finery here. We will
take it back to Kinbrace."

"What are we to do with Blackbriar when we
leave?" Sweyn appeared loath to hear Magnus' answer.

Magnus' teeth clanged together so hard he
near bit his tongue. He stared at his commander for a moment then
forced his face to relax.

"This morn, I had but one wish. Burn it to
the ground!" Looking around the room, he sighed.

"You've changed your mind, then?" Sweyn's
solemn face brightened.

"Aye. 'Twould be a terrible waste. Though we
destroyed much, the next baron can rebuild it. We'll leave enough
men to see to its safety until King David appoints Blackbriar's new
lord. He would not take kindly to us leaving him an empty
shell."

Satisfied, he used the tip of his sword to
retrieve a deep blue-green kirtle tangled with a soft silver smock
off the floor. The faint hint of spiced apples drifted from the
soft cloth. Ah, the tall, naked lass of his mind had worn it.

His cock again burst to life beneath his
kilt, shooting pleasure through his battered body. He shook his
head in disgust.

The long battle had left him brainsick.

Kildonan Forest, Five Months Later

Heat caused Muriele to gather her skirts
between her legs and secure them in front with a thin cord. Leaving
her mother behind in the old hut, she went out to hunt.

Magnus' wrath had spared Blackbriar's
villages, for they had not participated in the castle's defiance.
Far from it. Lord Baldor had locked the gate and left them to fend
for themselves.

From the earliest Muriele could remember she
went with her mother to bring extra food, clothing, and medicines
to those who needed it. Her father kept watch over their homes and
farms, and provided aid to repair huts and thatched roofs. Her
parents never ignored any plea for help.

After Lord Baldor arrived at Blackbriar, he
forbad giving aid to the villagers. It did not stop the women.
Hiding their supplies in a cart, they went as often as they could.
When Baldor kept too close a watch on them, Grunda took their
place. If a warrior came close to her cart, the old spaewife yelled
chants and made spastic gestures, arms and legs flying. They did
not venture closer.

Now, the villagers did what they could to
help Lady Ragnhild and Muriele. They kept watch, fearing Sir Magnus
would return and find the women whom he'd searched for after the
siege.

Since he'd taken Grunda to Kinbrace Castle,
her mother was the only woman knowledgeable enough to aid them.
They put aside their fears of Magnus's patrols whenever the fevers,
the bloody flux, or any number of other ills took them.

Before the sun rose, an elderly woman came on
behalf of her grandson. The boy was careless while thrashing wheat
and suffered a festering wound. Muriele's mother did not hesitate
but grabbed a cloth sack of herbs for healing concoctions and
hurried off to help the boy.

o0o

Muriele's arrows had flown true all day, and
she now had more than enough meat for a sennight. 'Twas near dark
when she stepped out into the small clearing before their hut. No
plume of smoke rose from the hole in the thatch. Usually, her
mother had hot water ready for Muriele to prepare the day's
kill.

Inside, she filled a pot from the water
barrel in the corner, and kindled the fire. By the time she
completed her chores, she had vegetables and a plump hare stewing.
A sickening feeling roiled in her gut. Every crack of a twig or
rustle of leaves caused her to run outside to check the woods
nearby. Her mother always returned at night, using the moon as
guide.

She did not sleep but waited for the darkness
to fade to gray. Throwing a woolen shawl around her shoulders, she
set out on the paths leading to the village. Halfway there, she
cried out. At a bend in the path, scavenger birds circled.

Muriele ran. She tripped over a bundle of
herbs and her mother's cloak. Scrambling to her feet, she pushed
through brush until she burst out into a small clearing. Ragnhild
lay naked, on her side with her knees forced up and tied to her
elbows. Blood covered her thighs, her woman's place. Her pale hair,
shoulders and chest, the ground on which she lay, were dark with
blood. Her throat gaped from ear to ear.

A wail, long and piercing, warbled from
Muriele's throat. Pulling a knife from the sheath at her waist, she
cut the rope bindings and stretched her mother out on her back.
Tugging off her shawl, she wrapped the body then gathered her into
her arms and cradled her on her lap. Tears flowed down on the
unseeing face, beautiful still though bruised and cut. Muriele
rocked back and forth, unable to stop keening.

"Will ye look at her? Ain't she a bonnie
one?"

How had she become so careless? 'Twas the
Kinbrace patrol. They'd heard her cries and returned, knowing
they'd have more sport. The men slid off their mounts and circled
her.

"This'n be younger, too."

Hands reached to grab her, pulling her away
from the limp body. Muriele fought, hate for these human beasts
gave her strength. Blood smeared their clothing. Her mother's
blood. She kicked, scratched and bit anything within range.