The Hostage Bride (22 page)

In the cottage she stood leaning against the door, watching as he lifted a massive sword, sheathed in leather, from a hook on the far wall. He buckled it to his thick swordbelt, and strapped on a steel breastplate over his buff jerkin. He ran a gloved finger over the blade of a wickedly curved dagger before sheathing it, then slung his cloak over his shoulders, clasping it at the neck.

“Remember what I’ve said.” He gave her a short nod, then moved her aside and left, taking some current of energy with him, leaving the kitchen feeling deserted and lifeless.

Portia huddled deeper into her cloak, gazing sightlessly at the glowing coals in the hearth. With a sudden unplanned movement, she drew the hood up to cover her blazing hair. She left the cottage, not sure exactly what she intended doing but infused with a sense of excitement and daring that seemed to propel her along a path of its own choosing.

T
he stable yard on the surface was a scene of chaos. Men
and horses milled, grooms raced to and from the tack room with equipment, while others were scurrying around filling saddlebags with provisions from the mess. Rufus stood head and shoulders above the throng, holding Ajax’s bridle and issuing orders to Will, who stood beside him.

It was clear to Portia after a minute’s observation that beneath the apparent chaos was a steady, well-ordered process with which everyone was thoroughly familiar. No one had time to notice her, and even if they did they would see only an unremarkable figure in britches and frieze cloak who could be any one of the young men rushing around the yard.

She slipped into the stable, knowing exactly which horse she was looking for. A dainty mare called Penny, who had caught her eye on her earlier visit to the stables during her tour with Rufus. The horse was still in her stall at the far end of the stable block, saddle and bridle hanging conveniently on the crossbar at the rear of the stall, and it was a matter of minutes to saddle her in the deserted building.

Casually, with what she hoped was an air of authority and familiarity, Portia led the mare out of the stable and into the yard. Men were mounted now and the horses stamped and blew, sensing the excitement.

Portia swung herself up onto Penny and unobtrusively edged the mare into the group of mounted men. Rufus mounted the magnificent Ajax, cast a glance over his troop of men, then raised his hand and gestured forward. The young men who had been left behind looked enviously at their luckier fellows as the
chosen group
clattered out of the yard and turned along the riverbank.

Toby and Luke tumbled into the lane as the cavalcade approached. They clambered onto a gate shouting, “Papa … Papa!” at the tops of their voices.

Rufus drew rein and leaned down to scoop them off the gate, setting them on his saddle in front of him. It was a position they were used to, but one that awed them. Their ecstatic shrieks were abruptly cut off. They gazed around wide-eyed in mingled terror and pride as Ajax climbed the hill at the head of the troop of horse.

At the top of the hill, Rufus lifted his sons down into the waiting arms of the watchman. “Send them back when we’ve gone.”

“Aye, m’lord.” The man grinned, settling a child on each hip. “Good luck, sir.”

They passed through the sentry post and trotted across the hillside, no one as yet aware that Lord Rothbury’s little troop contained not thirty but thirty-one members.

Portia realized with a startled jolt that she had succeeded in escaping Decatur village. She had acted without conscious motivation, not really believing that she would pull it off. But here she was, lost in this knot of men, unnoticed by their commander, and presumably a moment would come when she could lag behind, slide into a clump of trees, vanish from sight. She’d be free and clear, despite Rufus Decatur’s complacent lectures on the security of his stronghold.

She couldn’t help grinning, and then her grin faded as she wondered how Cato would receive her return. Surely he’d be interested in her information? Diana, of course, had probably been singing good riddance since Portia’s abrupt disappearance, but Olivia, at least, would be pleased to see her.

The men around her rode in silence, and only the clink of a bridle, the jingle of a spur, competed with the plaintive calls of a plover or the sudden joyous heartpouring of a blackbird.

It was too soon to make her bid for freedom, the countryside too open and still too close to the hilltop watchmen. She managed to remain inconspicuous by casually changing position. There seemed no particular order to the procession, men rode singly or in twos and threes, and Portia moved Penny around the little knots of riders, never in one position long
enough to draw attention to herself. However, she kept well back from the head of the cavalcade, where Rufus Decatur rode with Will.

They soon left the open countryside and turned into a narrow, rocky defile that threaded between two folds of hills. The craggy sides rose high, almost meeting overhead at some points. There was never more than a thin sliver of blue sky, and the air was cold and dank, the continual drip of moisture down the rock face adding to the gnarled pendant shafts of ice.

They rode in single file now and in complete silence. It was as if the brooding quality of their surroundings had infused their spirits, and there was no sign of the earlier exhilaration. Penny picked her way delicately between a raw-boned gray gelding and a handsome black mare. She seemed perfectly comfortable, as if she’d taken part in many such expeditions in the past, but her position sandwiched between two other horses precluded Portia’s escape from the narrow pass. She’d just have to bide her time until the bottleneck opened.

The cavalcade was still within the defile when Rufus drew rein and signaled a halt. Portia couldn’t see what was happening at first, then she noticed one of the men scrambling up the rock face, as nimbly as if he was on a ladder. At the top, he clambered over on his belly and slithered away.

“They should be gettin’ close b’now,” the man in front murmured to Portia, turning in his saddle to address her as he drew out a packet of provisions from his saddlebags. “The master ’as a right gift fer estimatin’.”

Rufus must have based his calculations on how fast Leven’s men were moving. But how could he have known that from such a distance with only a spyglass to help him?

Despite the grimness of their surroundings, the men were all now unwrapping provisions, obviously stoking themselves for the battle to come—a prospect that didn’t seem to affect their appetites any. Portia was ravenous, but there was nothing she could do except sniff hungrily and pretend indifference.

The man came scrambling back down the cliff and raced to where Rufus was calmly eating bread and cheese atop Ajax. They had a hasty whispered colloquy and then the word came down the line. “They’re approaching the mouth. Get in position.”

Provisions were put away, muskets came out. The men rode forward to a point where the defile opened out like the mouth of an estuary onto a patch of open ground surrounded by leafless trees and moss-covered boulders as big as small knolls. It was a natural enclosure and the perfect site for an ambush.

The Decatur men were forming rows of five, one line behind the other, holding to the shadows of the hidden pass. Portia couldn’t see how she could fail to be discovered if she stayed around. There was no place for number thirty-one in the five-man rows. But now was her chance for escape. She edged Penny backward down the defile. If no one looked behind, she would be able to back around a corner and retrace the path to the open hillside with no one any the wiser. From there she would find her way back to Castle Granville somehow.

Miraculously, no one looked over a shoulder; no one seemed aware of the lone horseman backing away. Once around the corner, Portia turned Penny in the constricted space. Behind her she could hear nothing, not even the shuffle of hooves or a soft whicker, but she could feel the tension like a tight band around her chest as the little troop of Decatur men waited to pit their lives and skills against the enemy.

Suddenly Portia knew that she couldn’t ride away from the approaching action. She had to see what happened. She told herself she could easily leave afterward. In the post-engagement chaos she could be out of there and safely on her way without fear of detection. She dismounted, tied Penny to a spur of rock, and clambered up the cliff face. The Decatur man had made it appear easy, and there were hand and footholds in the crevices, but it was still an arduous climb and she hauled herself onto the top of the cliff panting for breath.

Lying on her belly on the cold ground, she found she had a perfect view of the ambush point. When Lord Leven’s patrol trotted through the bare trees, her heart skipped and jumped like a grasshopper.

The attack when it came was so swift and silent that Lord Leven’s men were surrounded before they realized it. The Decatur troop rode from the defile, row after row of them, fanning out around the square until they had their quarry
encircled. To the watcher above, there seemed to be a moment when it was inevitable that the Scots would lay down their arms without a fight, but then a roaring skirl of sound emerged into the strange flat silence and Leven’s men rose in their stirrups with a shout of defiance.

Portia had not at first noticed the piper, but now as the bagpipes blared their martial call, Leven’s Scotsmen hurled themselves into battle. Muskets cracked, swords clashed, and above it all the great sound rose ever louder, ever more defiant, ever more urgent.

Portia shivered. The pipes always made her shiver. She loved the sound, she loved to dance to it. It filled her with a wild exuberance when she was aware of nothing but the thrill of her blood in her ears, racing in her veins. It was elemental and savage and she responded to it as if it were a deep and essential part of herself.

It was all she could do to stop herself from leaping to her feet to join the fray. But how could she join the fray when she didn’t know which side she was on? And yet she found herself drawing her knife from her boot. Her physical being was operating now without any conscious rational intervention from her brain. She inched forward on her belly until she was lying on a slab of rock directly over the battlefield.

Leven’s men were outnumbered and they’d been taken by surprise. But they fought like demons. And the fighting was soon hand to hand. Muskets were useless in these conditions once they’d been fired. There was no time for the cumbersome process of reloading when a man was pressed on all sides. Swords and daggers flashed; a horse screamed and went down on one knee, throwing his rider.

Portia saw Will on the ground. He was on his feet in a trice, sword in hand, as his horse staggered upright, bleeding from a gash in the neck. One of Leven’s men turned and rode down upon the unhorsed man. His horse reared, hooves flailing, as he leaned down, swiping his sword in a great arc at the disadvantaged Will.

Portia hurled her knife. Only when it lodged in the sword arm of Will’s attacker, arresting the deadly sweep of his sword, did she realize that she’d chosen her side. Her aim had been
instinctive and utterly true. Will had time to duck and grab for his injured horse. He scrambled into the saddle just as Rufus, appearing from nowhere, brought his own sword down hard on the enemy’s, disarming him with an almighty clash of steel on steel that made the man scream as his already wounded arm was jarred unmercifully.

Only then did Rufus glance upward, his eyes searching for the origin of the knife that had saved Will. Portia still lay on her rock. She knew she was now in full view; she knew that a minute earlier she could have wriggled out of sight and been safe from detection. The knife would have remained a puzzle until the engagement was over. Then Rufus would probably have recognized the knife as Portia’s. But by then it would have been too late. She would have been long gone.

And yet she didn’t move. His roaming eyes found her, his bright gaze locked with hers, then he wheeled his horse and returned to the fray. Portia, now weaponless, looked around for something with which to contribute her mite. There were rocks and stones aplenty. A catapult or sling would have been ideal, but lacking either, she’d have to make do with manpower. She began a steady bombardment of Leven’s troops.

Her aim was mostly accurate and the rain of stones and rocks began to take a toll, men trying to dodge the missiles that seemed to come from nowhere, their concentration constantly disturbed, leaving them open to the more deadly assaults of the Decatur men. And above it all, the pipes continued to skirl.

It was over within fifteen minutes, although to Portia time seemed to be standing still, the scene below her acting itself out in a constant repetition of noise and violence. But Leven’s men were outnumbered, disarmed, unhorsed in a steady attrition until only their colonel and two of his men still sat their horses, swords still in hand.

The colonel glanced around, then slowly raised a hand to the piper, who immediately began to play the retreat. The colonel turned his sword hilt forward and offered it to Rufus.