Their leader came first through the front doors, and she saw him clearly in the dawn light, harsh now, steel gray, framing the wild-haired man dressed in his animal skins, his face pocked, his eyes flat and hard.
Even though she’d never seen him before, she knew immediately that he was Alan Durwald’s brother. Their features were so similar, even the way they carried themselves. It was like meeting the devil for a second time.
The devil had come for revenge. Someone had betrayed them.
He stopped when he saw her standing there, a boy facing him with a single sword and a single knife, both raised and ready to do battle, tall and slim, this boy, pride in those shoulders, pride bred into his very bones. What was he doing here?
“What,” Robbie Durwald said, coming to a stop, his voice filling the dead silence of the Great Hall, “a single little lad left to defend Oldham? What think ye of this, men?”
The men behind him laughed. Some didn’t because they were looking around, searching every corner of the hall, ready, nervous.
“A little lad,” Robbie Durwald said again, and he walked to the lad, pulling up a good six feet distant because he wasn’t stupid and the lad could be good with a sword. “Who are ye? Why are ye here? Sir Mark leaves ye here unguarded?”
Chandra said nothing at all.
“Come now, answer me. What do ye here, lad? Where is the lady of the keep? I was told only she and her friend were here.”
“She and her friend left hours ago for Camberley, for safety.”
“And why are ye the only one here?”
“I wanted to remain. I commanded the guards. You’ve killed them, haven’t you?”
“Aye, they’re all dead, the miserable English bastards. Aye, everything came to pass as I believed it would. Ye English have cocks for brains, so easy it was. And now there is only ye.”
Then she realized what had happened, how they’d been betrayed. The man-at-arms who’d told Mark that the Scots had fled back northward had not been wounded at all. He was the traitor. He’d opened the gates; he’d taken off the bars from the front doors.
“Well, lad, how wish ye to die?”
“If I die, it will be after I’ve ripped out your guts, you filthy bastard. You won’t feel it because you’ll be in hell with the devil, just watching and weeping at your failure.”
The man paused then, staring at the boy, and something sounded in his memory, something Alan had told him, and then he’d shown him that beautiful rope of hair he’d sliced away from her. No, it wasn’t possible. That girl couldn’t be here. She was a lady and at Camberley. But Alaric had said it was only two women.
“What be yer name, lad? Afore I kill an enemy, I like to say his name aloud and curse him to his death.”
“I am Alaric. Unlike the other Alaric, I am not a traitor.”
“Ah, the boy knows ye for what ye are, Alaric,” Robbie Durwald yelled behind him. “Come forward and tell me who this lad is?”
“No wound, I see,” Chandra said, watching the man stride toward them. She wished she could run the man through his belly.
“No,” Alaric said, “there is no wound. Wait, Robbie. I did not intend for Lady Mary to be harmed. Where is she?”
“She is gone, to Camberley.”
Alaric was shaking his head. “No, she did not leave Oldham. I was watching.” Then he stopped cold and stared. “You’re Sir Jerval’s lady. You’re that girl warrior.”
She didn’t move, just smiled at him.
“Aye, I believe ye’re right, Alaric,” Robbie Durwald said. “I believe I would like to have a lady serve me ale. What think ye, men?”
“Robbie,” Alaric said, coming forward to lightly touch his hand to the man’s forearm. “We don’t want to remain at Oldham any longer than we have to. Sir Mark and Sir Jerval aren’t stupid. We got them out of here, but they will realize what happened, that we doubled back, and they will come back. We must take Lady Mary’s dowry gold and leave, now.”
“They’re English, Alaric, just like you. They’re stupid and thoughtless. Just ye look—they left two ladies here unprotected at Oldham. What man would leave his lady unprotected?”
“She’s not a lady. I have heard the men talk of her. They say that she fights as well as they do, that she shows no mercy, that she will run a sword through your belly, smiling all the time. We must leave, Robbie, we must.”
“Ye bore me, Alaric. As I said, ye English are stupid filthy louts.” He turned slowly about to face Alaric, slipped a thin-bladed knife from his belt and, fast as a snake, slid it into his chest. “Go to hell,” Robbie said, watching Alaric’s eyes go wide and unseeing as he fell silently to the stone floor.
“Now, lady, for that is what ye are, despite yer boy’s clothes, I wish ye to fetch me some ale. Aye, and ye will serve me, and then maybe ye’ll sit on my knee and I’ll let ye beg me for yer little life and that of Lady Mary. Aye, and I’ll see that hair of yers. Alan had a foot of it wrapped around his wrist. Yer husband took it from him when he killed him. Where is Lady Mary?”
“Alaric was wrong. Sir Mark sent her through the postern gate, to Camberley, to safety.”
“If I find her, and I will look very soon now, then I will kill her right in front of ye. Believe me, for I do not lie.”
“Mary,” Chandra said very quietly. “Come out.”
Slowly, Mary came from beneath the trestle table. Slowly, she stood.
“Ah, she carries a babe, does she? Sir Mark seduced ye, little one? Planted a babe in yer belly? But he married ye—a good man, all say, but I don’t care about that.”
Mary stood straight and tall, her chin up. She said, her voice loud and clear, “My husband will kill you.”
Robbie Durwald threw his head back and laughed. “He’s not here, if ye’ll notice, my lady. He’s probably near the border by now, chasing shadows and clouds.”
“It’s nearly daylight now,” Chandra said.
“Aye, and he’ll ride and ride because that’s what he’s supposed to do, thinking he will see us fleeing like cowards just over the next rise. An Englishman’s brain can’t work as quickly as a Scot’s.”
“As well as your brother’s worked?” It was out of her mouth before she could curse herself. She held herself very still. She had to keep him there, talking, bragging, because she knew to her bones that Jerval would come. And this wasn’t the way to do it.
Robbie Durwald jerked about to face her. “Ye don’t sully my brother’s name, hear ye? Ye don’t insult him.”
She couldn’t help herself, just couldn’t. “He was the cowardly one. He came at Sir John’s appeal to kill my husband, but my husband wasn’t stupid. He was waiting for him because he knew Sir John had betrayed us, and he trapped him in his own web and he killed him, just as he’ll kill you.”
“Ye think so? Go get me ale, wench, now.”
Mary said quickly, “I can call the servants to fetch you ale. I am very thirsty myself.”
“Nay,” said Robbie Durwald, “I want the lad to fetch it. Go, lad, or my knife slides into Lady Mary’s sweet belly.” He saw her determination, that steel that came from deep within her, and he remembered what his brother had said—“I wanted to break her, but I don’t know if I ever could have.” He pressed the tip of his knife against Mary’s stomach. “Now, drop that little knife and sword on the floor.”
Chandra didn’t want to give up her weapons, but there was no choice. Slowly, she bent down and laid the knife and sword side by side on the floor.
“Hurry, little lad, hurry.”
It gave them more time, Chandra thought, as she ran out of the Great Hall into the silent inner bailey. Durwald’s men shouted at her, but she ignored them. There were three servants in the kitchens, hiding behind flour bins. She told them to stay where they were and keep quiet. She picked up two pitchers of ale and all the goblets she could carry and brought them back to the Great Hall. If only she had some poison to pour into the ale, if only—but there was no time to search about. He would
hurt Mary if she didn’t hurry—she had no doubt about that at all.
When she came running into the Great Hall, it was to see Robbie Durwald standing even closer to Mary, his knife extended, its point resting just above her left breast. She saw him reach out his hand to touch her and something inside her broke. Once she had let Mary be raped, but not this time.
She ran as fast as she could, the men parting as she came. She raced to Robbie Durwald, and yelled, “Don’t you touch her, you bastard! Here!” And she threw a pitcher of ale in his face. His arm jerked up, and she kicked him square in his groin as hard as she could, grabbed the knife as it loosened in his fingers, and went down with him as he clutched himself and fell onto his knees. She jerked him up against her as he moaned and whimpered in agony, her arm tight around his neck.
“Now,” she said to his men over his moans, for she’d kicked him harder than she’d ever kicked a man in her life. He was nearly insensible with the pain, and for the moment he was helpless. She tightened her hold around his neck and lightly sliced his own knife across his throat. A thin line of blood welled up. His men stopped dead in their tracks.
“Robbie, what should we do?”
“He’ll not answer you just yet,” Chandra said, and jerked him back to keep him off balance. “All of you will drop your swords and knives, now!”
“Nay,” Robbie Durwald managed to say, and he brought up his hands to claw at her arm. She stuck the knife tip into his throat. Blood welled out. He froze.
“If you move, you will be dead,” she said against his temple. “Now, stay on your knees and don’t move.” Slowly, she eased her hold and stood over him, leaning only slightly, her knife point firm against his neck.
She said now, “All of you, take three steps back. That’s right, do it now. Three steps.”
Slowly, the men moved backward.
“Mary, fetch their knives and swords and put them behind me. Hurry, but take care.”
“I’ll kill ye, ye bitch, and it’ll be slow and I’ll laugh whilst I—”
She eased the knife further into his neck. He gulped and shut up.
What to do now?
She’d won. She couldn’t really believe it, but she’d managed because of her red-eyed rage about Mary, and she’d won.
Where were the bloody servants?
It was dead silent in the Great Hall save for the still, harsh breathing of Robbie Durwald. The pain was leaving him, she realized, and she knew he would try to get away from her.
“Mary, hand me my own knife and sword.”
She held her own knife in her hand, eased up the other and slipped hers into place. She said to Robbie Durwald, “Feel my knife. It’s sharper than yours, and it’ll go through that coarse neck of yours in but an instant. Don’t move or you’ll be dead before you keel over.”
“How long do ye think ye can hold us here all by yerself?”
“As long as I—”
It happened so fast that she didn’t even see it. One of Durwald’s men pulled a knife out of his tunic belt and hurled it at her. It struck her shoulder and Chandra felt a blaze of fire slam into her. Her knife wavered and Robbie Durwald moved quickly, twisted her wrist until she dropped the knife, and then jumped back from her.
He was laughing.
At her.
Chandra had thrown her knife at Graelam and struck him in the shoulder. The irony of it ate deep. She didn’t appreciate it. The pain was so strong, so overwhelming, that it took every bit of her strength, pulled from the deepest part of her, to keep a hold. “Mary,” she said. “Mary, stay behind me.”
“Aye, Lady Mary, do whatever ye wish, but first, ye will very nicely return my weapons to my men.”
“Chandra—”
“I’m all right, Mary. Do as he says. I’m all right.”
Mary looked at her friend, her face deathly pale, the knife stuck in her shoulder, blood pouring over her hand.
“Do as he says, Mary.”
“Aye, Lady Mary, do as the little lad here asks.”
Robbie Durwald came to stand over her. He took her chin in his palm and forced her face upward. He sank his knife point into her woolen cap and jerked it off. Her hair fell about her face.
“Ah, now I see ye as ye really are. The knife hurts? Aye, I can see that it does.” He reached down and jerked it out.
Chandra felt as if someone had pulled her heart from her chest. She had time only to suck in her breath at the pain; then she fell over onto her side.
Durwald knelt beside her, ripped off strips of her tunic, wadded the cloth and pressed it against her wound. He called to his men, “Once you have yer weapons, we’re off.” He stared down at her, willing her to open her eyes.
But she didn’t.
“We’ll torch the keep,” he said and rose. Mary raced to Chandra and pressed the blood-soaked cloth to the wound.
“Nay, don’t,” she said, looking up at Robbie Durwald. “Don’t fire the keep.”
“I’ll do whatever I wish to do,” Durwald said, and turned toward his men.
Chandra felt his movement away from her. She felt the pain deep in her shoulder, but she also felt more determined than she ever had in her life. She felt for her sword, clutched her fingers around the grip, and lurched to her feet. She was on him in an instant, her sword going through his side. He yelled and whirled about, his men staring, not believing that the girl was even alive.
It was what Jerval saw when he and Mark burst into the Great Hall. Chandra was jerking her sword out of a man’s back even as he was turning, his knife raised.
He saw blood covering her.
He meted out death even as his howls of rage filled the Great Hall of Oldham.
It was Mark who gave Robbie Durwald his deathblow.
Chandra stood there, panting, her sword in one hand, its tip bloody, her other hand pressed against her shoulder, blood everywhere, so red against her white face, and he couldn’t believe it. She was smiling.
“I knew you would come,” she said. “Thank you, Jerval. It was close, very close.”
He was striding toward her when she collapsed where she stood.
“I’m going to strangle you,” he said, his mouth against her cheek. “Aye, the instant you’re well again, I’m going to strangle you.”
She tried to smile, but it was difficult. She’d lost a lot of blood, she knew, and she knew that most men wounded as she’d been easily bled their lives away. But he wouldn’t let her die. She knew that as well.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You were supposed to be safe, holding Mary’s hand, reassuring her.” He was speaking more to himself than to her, and she realized it even though the pain was building now and it was hard to hold on, to keep the pain at bay so she could see him clearly and hear his words.
“Thirsty,” she whispered.
He held her head up and put the goblet to her lips. She drank slowly, so slowly. He wiped water from her chin.
“There is a healer here at Oldham. Her name is Agnes. She has sworn to me that you will live. You’ve been very sick for three days now.”
“Is Mary all right?”
“Aye, she is fine. When I am not with you, she is. You have but to lie still and mend. I have sent Prince Edward and Princess Eleanor on their way. They are sorry that you were wounded.”
“Will you go to the Holy Land with them?”
He was silent a moment. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “First you must get well again. Then we will see.”
“I want to go too,” she said. Then her eyes closed and she slept.
He thought of her fighting Robbie Durwald, her life bleeding away, and—and what? he wondered. It was his fault that he’d left her unprotected at Oldham. Yet it was her fault that she’d even come with him, sneaking in with his men. And he knew to his bones that she would never waver, she would never back down, she would always fight.
He sighed. He had no idea what he would do.
“Aye, it is a good sleep,” Agnes
said, coming up to stand beside the bed. “The lass is strong, stronger than most men I’ve tended. She’ll live to give ye gray hair.”
“I think she already has,” Jerval said.
It was three nights later, in the deepest part of the night, when Jerval awoke to her moan.
He quickly lit a candle and came down beside her. “What is wrong, Chandra? Does your shoulder pain you?”
“My stomach, Jerval,” and she cried out, clasping her arms around herself, drawing up, and then she moaned deeply, jerking, finally lying back, panting hard.
“What’s wrong? My stomach feels like it’s ripping apart.”
“I don’t know,” he said and was gone in the next moment to fetch Agnes.
He heard her screaming even before they returned to the bedchamber. Agnes pushed him aside and came down over his wife. He saw her pull back the covers, saw her jerk up Chandra’s bedgown. Then he saw the blood, so much blood, and it was coming from her body. And he knew then, knew that she had lost a babe.
She was moaning quietly now, her eyes closed, her palms up at her sides as Agnes bathed her.
He turned and left the bedchamber.
It had happened so quickly. The child had existed for such a short time and now it was gone.
Simply gone.
Chandra lay quietly, bathed, wrapped in a clean bedrobe, and she felt empty.
She heard him come into the bedchamber. She said nothing until he was standing beside her and his palm was flat on her forehead.
“I’ve no fever,” she said.
“No.”
“I want to go home.”
“I told you. You cannot return to Croyland.”
“No, I meant Camberley.”
His eyes narrowed on her pale face. So much pain she’d endured, so much blood she’d lost. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he said, unable to keep the words back, “You lost my babe.”
She said nothing, just stared ahead toward the narrow window cut into the far wall. Both of them were staying in Mark and Mary’s bedchamber. It had been nearly seven days now.
He waited, and finally she said, “I did not even know that I carried a babe.”