Sharon Schulze (24 page)

She nearly laughed when she thought about how easy it had been to repress her womanly feelings after her experiences at Madog’s hands. But now that Nicholas had shown her what beauty a man and woman could create together, she knew she could never return to that sterile existence. He had opened the floodgates of her emotions, allowing them to burst forth.

Her entire being had become sensitized. Not only was she aware of her own sensuality, but she reacted to her surroundings more strongly. The burgeoning scents of spring carried on a warm breeze, the delicate greens of the earth reborn—

They called to something deep inside her, reflecting her own resurrection from the cold, dark depths of her old life.

And like the awakening earth, Catrin wanted to bring forth her own new beginnings. Her life began anew with Nicholas. She’d wed him in a moment if he asked, go with him to Ashby and take up the challenges there.

There was nothing she wanted more.

“Do you like what you see?” Gillian asked, leaning over Catrin’s shoulder to peer into the mirror.

Catrin started, her eyes focusing on the image reflected back at them. “’Tis an improvement over last week, I must admit.” She placed the mirror carefully on the table. “Are you ready to go outside?”

“Yes. I cannot hide away in here any longer. Who knows what mischief everyone’s been up to without my supervision?” Gillian laughed. “As if they really need it.”

“Your household could likely run itself, ’tis true, but I’m sure life flows more smoothly when you’re keeping a watchful eye over everything,” Catrin said as they
slowly descended the stairs and crossed the hall to go outside.

They hadn’t reached the bottom of the outer stairs before shouts came from the guards on the gatehouse wall. A man, one of the villagers from the look of him, staggered through the gates and collapsed against the wall.

“Fire,” he gasped. Catrin hurried closer, Gillian on her heels. His clothes were singed and soot-stained. He reeked of smoke. “There’s fire everywhere in the village.”

Gillian directed servants to find buckets and barrels and go to the villagers’ aid. People streamed out the open gates and raced down the track to the town, Gillian and Catrin following as quickly as they could. A servant ran after them with Gillian’s basket of simples, for there were bound to be injuries.

“Are you sure you should do this, Gillian?” Catrin asked, tugging on Gillian’s trailing sleeve to stop her. “You’ve just risen from childbed. You’ve not even been churched. What if the villagers are so superstitious that they won’t allow you to help? You’ll have dragged yourself down here for nothing.”

Gillian yanked her sleeve free. “I doubt they’ll stop to think about whether the Church considers me unclean or not,” she said tartly. “None of them are overly religious, truth to tell. Besides, I’m not certain the prohibitions extend to caring for the injured—or saving their lives.” She rejoined the surge of people still rushing along the road. “Come along, Catrin.”

Shrugging, Catrin resumed walking. Personally, she didn’t hold with the Church’s bizarre ideas regarding women who’d just given birth, but there were places where those constraints were closely followed.

Such trifles fled her mind as they topped the slight rise in the road and the village came into view. ’Twas like a
scene from hell, cottages in flames and people running, shouting as they fought to save their homes.

Gillian grabbed Catrin’s arm, her eyes filled with horror. “How could the entire village be engulfed so swiftly?” Seeing several people sitting or lying on the ground away from the buildings, they hastened to offer help.

Everyone in the group was hurt—burned, cut or badly bruised. The women set to work, tending their wounds. A small but steady trickle of injuries came their way as the castle folk worked with the villagers to salvage what they could.

During a lull the two women moved beneath the trees, seating themselves on cushiony piles of dry leaves. Gillian’s face was pale and she looked tired, but Catrin knew better than to suggest she return to the keep.

“I doubt there will be much left to save,” Gillian said, staring at the still-smoldering cottages. “Just so long as my people survive, I don’t care. Houses can be rebuilt.”

“What a noble sentiment.” The sneering voice came from the forest.

Startled, Catrin turned and peered through the underbrush, her hand dropping to edge beneath her skirts in search of her dagger.

“Who is there? Come out at once,” Gillian demanded. She slowly came to her feet as Steffan walked out from behind a large oak.

The comforting weight of her dagger filling her hand, Catrin rose and moved to stand between Steffan and Gillian. “What are you doing here?” she snarled. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “Go for help, Gillian. Quickly.”

Steffan folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “I don’t think so, cousin.” Catrin spun in time to see that
great oaf, Huw, grab Gillian’s arms from behind and reach up to muffle her mouth.

She turned back to face Steffan. “Let her go.”

“Or what? Do you think to kill me with that trifling blade on your belt?”

Catrin lunged at him with her dagger, wanting nothing so much as to slash the smug expression from his face. He reminded her of Madog—smooth, oily charm covering the black heart of a snake.

Laughing in her face, Steffan grabbed her arm in midslash, squeezing so tightly her fingers opened and went numb, allowing the knife to drop to the ground. “You’ll not get the chance to try that again, you bitch,” he snapped, viciously wrenching her arm behind her. Pain shot up her arm and across her shoulder, so intense her knees gave way and she slumped against him.

Giving her arm one last twist, he let her drop to the ground. “Tie them,” he ordered, picking up her knife and striding past her to Gillian.

Catrin refused to pay any heed to the man trussing her arms behind her, instead focusing her attention on Gillian.

Huw finished binding Gillian’s wrists and moved away, a malicious grin splitting his face. Steffan grabbed her chin and forced her head up, slipping off the rag Huw had tied around her mouth. “Where is the brat?”

Seeing the raw fear in Gillian’s eyes, Catrin answered. “The babe is dead. ’Twas stillborn.” Stalling for time, she rose awkwardly to her knees and tried to adjust the coarse rope tied round her wrists so it didn’t hurt so much. Where was everyone? Surely by now someone should have noticed them.

But the activity in the village was centered away from them, and they’d moved too far into the sheltering trees.

Gillian appeared ready to swoon. Catrin tried again.
“Leave her be, Steffan. Can’t you see she’s not well? She’s suffered enough of late, without having to deal with the likes of you.”

“No. You’re both coming with me,” he said, examining Gillian from head to toe. He grabbed at her breast and squeezed hard, laughing when tears began to run down her face. “You expect me to believe the Norman brat died, yet your breasts are full.”

Gillian jerked back to escape his grip. “It has not yet been a week, Steffan. My body hasn’t returned to normal.” She took another step back. “Get off my land, you bastard.”

“Oh, I’m leaving. But so are you,” he said, his face alight. “Get them on the horse,” he told Huw. “We’ve been here too long already. The fire won’t distract them forever.”

“You caused this?” Gillian shrieked. She kicked out at Steffan’s legs, but lost her balance. She would have fallen if Huw hadn’t grabbed her about the waist and tossed her over his shoulder.

“Let go of me, you worm!” Gillian’s next words were inaudible as Steffan tied a rag to cover her mouth.

Guessing she’d be next, Catrin filled her lungs with air and opened her mouth to let out a screech, but Steffan cut off the sound with his hand before it became more than a squeak. “Don’t abuse my good nature, cousin,” he warned, wrapping a strip of fabric over her mouth.

What good nature? she wondered, trying to jut out her jaw so she could loosen the material later. She’d vowed this would never happen to her again. Rage toward Steffan threatened to cloud her mind, but at least it kept the fear at bay. The gag smelled like him, an overpowering scent of musk and sandalwood. The odor alone was enough to make her want to vomit—not wise under the circumstances.
Sweet visions of mayhem, with Steffan as the victim, filled her mind as he hefted her up onto the horse behind Gillian.

Gillian looked over her shoulder at Catrin, her eyes filled with pain.

How could they escape this?

Catrin cast a last, hopeful look back toward the burning village as Steffan led them away, but no one saw them. Leaning forward, she pressed her cheek against Gillian’s for comfort and hoped this desolate view of l’Eau Clair would not be their last.

T
hey journeyed through the forest for hours, stopping only once when Huw realized that Gillian and Catrin couldn’t ride with their hands bound behind them. He adjusted their bonds, tying their wrists in front of them. Then they traveled deeper into the woods, following a path so faint Catrin could scarcely see it.

Huw and the three other men rode off a short time later—several hours into the journey, by her estimation—leaving them alone with Steffan.

Catrin had no idea where they were, or where they were going. Steffan hadn’t spoken to them since they’d left Gillian’s demesne. But he talked to himself constantly. She couldn’t hear enough to understand what he said, but the tone of his voice and his odd mannerisms made her wonder about his sanity.

Not that she’d ever considered him sane. Even as a child he had possessed grand delusions and an arrogance far above his station. But he’d been a relatively harmless annoyance then.

Now he frightened her.

For the moment though, he ignored them completely, a blessing for which she was exceedingly grateful. This
reminded her too much of her abduction by Madog. Simply looking at Steffan sent a shiver of apprehension running down her spine.

At first Gillian had been able to sit straight in the saddle, but Catrin could tell that her strength was gone. She slumped back, her eyes closed. Catrin suspected she’d fallen into an exhausted doze.

She bore Gillian’s weight as best she could, but she could feel her own stamina fading away with the added burden. Surely even Steffan would have to stop sometime. The light began to fade into dusk, yet still they plodded on.

Suddenly Gillian sat up with a jolt, nearly slipping from the saddle. Catrin grabbed her belt—a difficult feat with her hands tied—and held on until she regained her balance. That strain, after Steffan’s earlier roughness, made her arms feel as if they’d been wrenched from her shoulders.

Gillian looked about, confused, until her eyes settled on Steffan. She moaned behind the gag, drooping back against Catrin for a moment, then straightening her spine.

Since Steffan ignored them, she judged it safe enough to get rid of the gag. This was the perfect time to try something. Except for the fact that he continued to hold the lead rein, he seemed oblivious to their presence.

Besides, how could they decide what to do if they couldn’t speak?

She rubbed her cheek against Gillian’s shoulder, rolling the fabric down. Her mouth was dry, so she pushed at the gag with her tongue, finally forcing it out of her mouth. She nudged it down around her neck, wincing when the knot in the back pulled her hair.

“I think I can loosen your gag,” she whispered to Gillian, her eyes fixed on Steffan.

After tugging at it with her teeth, the material finally came undone and fell to the ground.

“What I wouldn’t give for a drink right now,” Catrin whispered as she watched Gillian wiggle her jaw. Her mouth felt dry as dirt and tasted a thousand times worse.

“Do you think we could slip off the horse and get away?” Gillian asked.

“No. I considered it earlier, but I don’t believe we could get enough of a start before he realized we’d left.” She raised her hands and shoved at the hair hanging in her face. “I’m not certain whether we should try to untie ourselves, either. I don’t know if we could. He seems demented, Gillian. Have you noticed?”

“No more than usual. But he hates to be crossed. When he took me before, he struck me so hard I fell against a stool and hit my head. And that was when he wanted to marry me.” She eyed him nervously. “I didn’t wake till the next morning. I’d rather try to get away. God only knows what he has in mind for us,” she added, shuddering. “And Katherine needs me. How will they feed her when I’m not there?” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Perhaps we could overpower him.”

“I don’t think so. He’s strong. When he twisted my arm, I thought I’d swoon.”

“It’s nearly night. The path is so dark, we’ll have to stop once the sun goes down,” Gillian said hopefully. “If we wait until then, mayhap we’ll find a chance. He has to sleep sometime.”

“Until then we should rest and plan,” Catrin whispered.

Nicholas slumped in the saddle, his mount’s bouncing gait doing little to counter his weariness. He and Rannulf had traveled like the wind to Prince Llywelyn’s, observed
the bare minimum of courtesies while passing on the king’s messages, then ridden nearly nonstop back to l’Eau Clair.

He could imagine what King John would say when he heard about their whirlwind visit, but he didn’t care. If there were consequences to this, he’d deal with them. No more would he seek to be the ideal knight; ’twas naught but a foolish quest, born of his shame. He’d allowed his life—and himself—to be ruled by the opinions of others for too long. No more.

From now on he’d live to please himself.

His horse sidled nervously, ears twitching back and forth. He scanned the area but saw nothing.

Then a gust of smoky air drifted by. Tension filled him. The acrid scent reminded him of battles, siege and death. “Rannulf,” he called, foreboding lending a sharpness to his voice.

“I smell it,” Rannulf replied, spurring his horse to greater speed. They galloped over the narrow track, their men thundering behind them. They were near l’Eau Clair. The possibilities racing through his mind made him curse even the short distance and the fact that they could travel no faster.

Wisps of smoke hung in the air like fog, and tendrils wove among the trees like gossamer silk. The closer they came to the village, the thicker the smoke. By the time they left the forest, they could scarcely see.

A man stepped into the road in front of them, startling the horses. ’Twas a wonder they didn’t accidentally run him down.

“Lord Rannulf! Thank God ’tis you.”

Edging closer, Nicholas recognized Sir Henry, the man in charge of l’Eau Clair’s defense.

Rannulf leapt from the saddle and led Sir Henry out of the road. Curious, Nicholas dismounted and joined them.

Soot-stained and drooping with exhaustion, Sir Henry looked ready to collapse. “Lady Gillian and Lady Catrin are missing, milord,” he said without preamble. “And someone set fire to the village.”

“What?” Rannulf grabbed the front of Sir Henry’s tunic.

“Were they abducted?” Nicholas asked, fear lending his voice a razor-sharp edge.

“Was the keep attacked? What of my daughter?” Rannulf’s eyes were wild.

Sir Henry gave them both a stern look. “Milords. Let me tell you what I know.”

Rannulf released him, but stood close by while Sir Henry straightened his twisted tunic. “It appears the women were taken, though we don’t know by whom. I sent men to search the forest. No one attacked l’Eau Clair. And Lady Katherine is safe with Emma.”

Rannulf looked ready to do murder. “Mount up,” he said. “We’ll arm ourselves for battle, then search for them ourselves.” He vaulted into the saddle. “I’ll be damned before I allow someone to take Gillian from me again.” He spurred his horse on.

Nicholas silently echoed his words as they hastened through the smoke to the keep. Although he still didn’t know who had attacked Catrin before, he feared they’d come to finish the task.

But why take Gillian? Before he left, Ian had hinted that he knew who was responsible for the assault on Catrin. According to Rannulf, Ian believed it was Steffan ap Rhys. Nicholas didn’t agree, judging Steffan too craven for such a bold attempt.

He had never understood what prompted Steffan to
seize Gillian the year before. Perhaps he’d tried again and Catrin got in the way. Or maybe there was a lunatic roaming the marches, stealing their women, he thought acidly.

At this point all they had were suspicions.

However, someone had wanted Catrin before, wanted her badly enough to attack an armed troop to get her. His head spinning, he focused on the most likely answer. It looked to him as though someone wanted one of the women—or both—enough to destroy a village to get her. Sir Henry hadn’t said, but the women were probably taken when everyone’s attention was on the fire.

He’d get her back, he vowed. Catrin had become the most precious thing in life to him, a life she’d taught him to appreciate. He wouldn’t rest until he held her in his arms again.

They found Ian standing amid the still-smoldering ruins of the village. As they halted their mounts he grinned. Was he demented, Nicholas wondered, to smile when his sister and cousin were missing and a village lay in shambles?

“Well met,” he said, stepping forward and motioning to one of his men to take their horses. “Our timing couldn’t have been better.”

Nicholas grabbed Ian by the shirt. “What is wrong with you?”

Rannulf seized him from behind and tugged him away. “Enough, Nick. Give him a chance to explain,” he said, although he, too, gave Ian a puzzled glare.

“Christ,” Nicholas snarled. “Don’t you care that your sister is missing—again?”

“Of course I care. But I’m glad you’re here, as well.” Ian gestured toward a group of men, sitting bound and gagged beneath the trees. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

Impatient to be done with his games, Nicholas strode
past him. He stared at the group for a moment, until something about one of them caught his attention.

Lunging forward, he snagged the man by his tunic and lifted him up. “It was you. You son of a bitch. Why?” Ripping off the man’s gag, Nicholas shook the whimpering coward until his head lolled on his shoulders. “Why did you attack her?” he roared, opening his fists and letting him drop limply to the ground.

He rounded on Ian when he received no answer from the outlaw. “Where did you find them?”

“Where I found them isn’t as important as who hired them. ’Twas Steffan.” Ian gazed at the fire-ravaged area. “This has the look of Steffan about it, as well. He must have waited till we left, then set his plan in motion. If we search for him, I’m certain we’ll find Catrin and Gillian with him.”

He shoved at the man Nicholas attacked. “I see you recognized Lord Nicholas, Ralph.”

Eyes huge, Ralph nodded.

“I’m giving you and your charming band of followers to him.” Ian smiled grimly at Nicholas. “Call it a gift for your impending nuptials.”

He’d wondered what Ian’s next move would be concerning Catrin. This acceptance was more than he’d hoped for; he’d expected something more along the line of swords and daggers, or a fistfight.

Instead Ian was giving him exactly what he wanted. “I thank you. I trust this means I may count on your support when I ask your sister to be my wife.”

“I suppose I have little choice. But I advise you to approach her fully armed.”

Rannulf watched this byplay in silence, but evidently his patience had reached its end. “This is all wonderful, I’m sure. And I congratulate you, Nicholas.” Snatching
up the reins, Rannulf swung onto his horse. “But unless we go after them soon, you may not have a woman to wed. It’s clear Steffan has lost what few wits he had. I don’t intend to leave Gillian in his hands any longer than I have to. As soon as I get more weapons and supplies I’m leaving. Are you with me?”

Nicholas jumped into the saddle before Rannulf finished his speech, and Ian wasn’t far behind. Exchanging a worried look, they galloped up the track to l’Eau Clair.

As the last rays of daylight faded away, Steffan led Catrin and Gillian up a steep path through the trees. It soon became too narrow and rocky for the horses. Halting, Steffan jerked them from their mount together, so they fell in a tangled heap at his feet.

“Get up. We’ve ground left to cover before it’s too dark,” he said, poking at them with his foot.

Catrin had landed atop Gillian, and she feared she’d come to harm, for she lay still, moaning slightly. She tugged at Gillian’s gown and tried to help her up, but she couldn’t offer much assistance with her hands bound.

Arms folded, Steffan watched as they struggled to their feet, a strange smile on his lips. “Aren’t you clever to take off your gags? No matter,” he said with a shrug. “We’re so far from civilization, you can scream all you want. No one will hear except me.”

Judging from the look on his face, he’d enjoy it, too. But Catrin refused to give him the satisfaction—whatever he might do to her. No doubt Gillian felt the same.

“’Tis a pleasure and a delight to see you thus. I’ve dreamed of this—both of you here to serve me as I wish.” He grabbed each by the arm and shoved them ahead of him. “Not long now,” he said in an abstracted voice. He prodded Catrin in the back. “I grow impatient. Move.”

She felt as though her blood had turned to fire in her veins as white-hot rage nigh overwhelmed her. How dare he steal them away from their loved ones and drag them out here? And for what purpose? It had to be something terrible, else he’d have taken them to the comfort of his own keep as he had with Gillian last year.

Exhaustion settled upon her, weighting her limbs until she could scarcely climb the uneven path. She couldn’t imagine where Gillian found the strength to continue, unless ’twas fear of Steffan’s anger that goaded her onward. She felt that spur herself.

Finally they emerged into a small clearing, faintly lit by the moon rising in the night sky. Steffan directed them to a crude hut and pushed them inside.

Catrin caught her balance against the rough wall, but Gillian fell over something, groaning as she tumbled to the floor.

“Clumsy bitch,” Steffan snarled, ignoring her plight and striking a flint to light a brace of candles.

Catrin knelt beside Gillian and assured herself that she hadn’t been hurt. But she sounded as though she’d reached the limit of her endurance. Catrin helped her lean against the wall, resolving to draw and hold Steffan’s attention so Gillian could rest.

He moved about the hut, lighting more candles. The room seemed bright as day after the faint light outside.

A chill passed through her as she looked about the chamber, for it strongly reminded her of the accommodations in Madog’s keep. A bed stood illuminated by several tall stands of candles. She’d swear she saw ropes looped at the head and foot of it. And spread out on the lid of the coffer at the foot was a bizarre assortment of objects. Catrin couldn’t put a name to any of them, but
she recalled the degradation and pain they could bring all too clearly.