Chapter 6

F ira knew she should start for Stern, but was still in the copse when the squires of Wulfen clashed with men Amaury de Chanson named vicious.

When she removed her canvas bag from the saddle, she was not certain exactly what she intended. All she could think was she was proficient with a long-range weapon and her family must keep their charges safe.

As she drew the bag atop her thighs, she saw sunlight on blades that sliced and stabbed, heard shouts, cries, and steel on steel. And now Mace’s father was in the midst of it. Despite the disadvantage of being on foot, he aided the squires, the thrust of one dagger keeping a brigand from completing a swing that could have opened the neck of one nearing knighthood. But though he prevented that one’s death, he could not stop the other squire from taking a blow to the arm.

Fira was whispering entreaties to the Lord and reaching into the bag for her bow when Amaury de Chanson yanked his gutted opponent off his horse and so fluidly gained the saddle she wondered if this was a dream, and was nearly convinced of it when a sword appeared in his hand. Though he had to have taken it from the one put to ground who was now in danger of being trampled, it seemed impossible.

More thundering hoofbeats came from the direction of Wulfen Castle, and though she could not see that far down the road, likely they were her brother’s men. That was confirmed when the three brigands yet astride spurred into the wood where Fira was so nearly in their path she might be seen as they rode past. Was it panic dizzying her or?—?

Not The Gloaming, she prayed, snatching her empty hand from the bag. Not now.

Lest it was, she must get somewhere none could crush her convulsing body nor witness it. Head lightening further, she put a thigh over the bag to ensure she not lose it, turned the horse toward Stern and, giving it her heels, hoped the patrol’s pursuit of the brigands gave her time to reach safety.

It did not, the miscreants shouting and changing course, doubtless to capture her and use as a shield against the Wulfriths’ wrath. When she glanced around, she saw the one whose horse carried a bound man gained on her. Had she peered over the opposite shoulder, she would have seen another rider and might have evaded his reach.

As she was snatched from the saddle, Fira gripped her bag to take it with her, though the unstrung bow was only something with which to beat her captor.

“It is Amaury!” he barked and, landing her on the fore of his saddle, veered left. As he commanded the horse beneath a canopy whose shadows would be denser in summer, she peered around him. Those just come off the road numbered five—the squires Amaury aided and two more accompanied by her brother-in-law, Sir Sinjin, whose presence meant a new patrol was being trained.

The brigands once more abruptly changing course, the patrol set after them alone. Thus, Amaury and she were not seen by those of Wulfen.

Now he who seemed destined ever to come to her aid brought the horse around. “God’s eyes!” he muttered when those of the hunt went from sight, then demanded, “Why did you not ride for home?”

Peering over her shoulder, she nearly told she had thought to fly arrows, but that would be as poorly received as if she told she feared being put to ground by what he mistook for hysterics resulting from ravishment last summer.

“Well, Woman?”

He had cause to be angry, but she raised her chin. “As told, my name is Lady Fira.”

Despite the dim here, his glower was visible. “Well, Lady Fira?”

Why did I not do as commanded? Because I behaved a fool, she silently admitted.

He sighed heavily. “You hinder when I should be aiding my man who was…taken by those knaves.”

“I am sorry. If we can retrieve my horse, I shall return home and trouble you no more.”

Did his teeth grind?

“Tips cannot have gone far.” She looked around and, catching no sight of the horse, patted the bag. “I have my bow and dagger and know my way. If the horse has returned home, the walk is not far.”

“And if there are others in the wood who would harm you? Or the Wulfen patrol fails and those who came after you do so again?”

“Unlikely.”

“God’s patience!” he snarled, then turned his head sharply.

She followed his gaze to where the brigands had gone and saw what supported his argument. The lone rider coming at them with sword unsheathed was not of the patrol.

Amaury told her to hold to him and, as she turned into him, spurred his mount deeper into the trees. Unsurprisingly, the remaining brigands had gone separate ways to throw the patrol off their scent, and one Amaury commanded years ago had circled back.

Doubtless, Herman believed it worth the risk to be the one to deliver Amaury to his leader and receive the greater portion of whatever reward was promised. Dead or alive, he wanted his former captain over the back of his horse just as Richarde draped Baudri’s.

The decision with which Amaury had struggled was made. He had thought he had only two options, the first to leave Lady Fira to make her way to Stern, the second to leave Richarde to his fate and see her safely returned. Neither was acceptable since terrible ill could befall either, whether she was set upon or the greater distance between Amaury and Richarde resulted in the latter’s death—that is, were he not already a corpse. However, now a third option. For a time, the lady would accompany him in his quest to recover Richarde. As soon as he could give her into the keeping of others who could be trusted, such as those of an abbey, he would leave her. And later deal with the Wulfriths’ displeasure.

Their escape from Herman was not assured since their horse carried two and Amaury’s muscled weight made up for the lady’s slight figure. Fortunately, as he urged their mount toward Lincolnshire’s coast that he believed the brigands’ destination—and not only for it drawing men of the sea like strong drink draws the drunken—glances around revealed their horse was either superior to the one falling behind or Amaury’s horsemanship far exceeded Herman’s.

Both, he allowed as he sped across a meadow, watching all sides for more riders, both varieties dangerous to him, but only one to this woman who held to him as well as her bag.

When they had outdistanced Herman long enough to go from sight, Amaury took cover and halted the panting beast.

The lady tilted her head back and peered into his face. “Chevalier?”

“Quiet.”

“Still he pursues us?”

“Quiet!” The slash of his eyes made her lips pinch, then she looked the direction whence they had come. Shortly, the single brigand was seen.

After he spurred past and over the rise, Amaury said, “Now he is the pursued.”

He thought she would demand to be taken home, but she said, “You think he will lead us to those who have your friend—that they set a meeting place should they be separated?”

“For the sake of my man, let us hope they know there is strength in numbers,” he said and urged the horse forward.

“Your hand must hurt, Chevalier. Forgive me for thinking you the enemy.”

He glanced at the red-crusted flesh coursing his knuckles. “It is little more than a scratch compared to…” He trailed off.

“What?”

To what you need not know, he thought, then said, “In some measure, I am your enemy, Lady. After all, I am of France, your king would send me to the gallows for past offenses, and I make no friends of the Wulfriths for exposing you to this.”

“I do not think you my enemy,” she said, though with some uncertainty.

Denying her a response, Amaury set to tracking the sea brigand over the border onto Lincolnshire while watching for signs of his fellow miscreants and the patrol. As no others were seen, either those of Wulfen had captured Gert’s two other men or abandoned the chase—possibly for the blade to the squire’s arm.

Dusk approached when the brigand altered his course and descended into a valley. Less cover there, Amaury dropped farther back, causing his quarry to go from sight time and again. Then came the sound of muted voices and a horse’s whinny.

After some minutes they were near enough for Amaury to identify the two speakers by their accents. Soon the sea brigands would number three—and never again four since Amaury was certain if the one he put down lived, he would crawl into the wood to bleed out his last or be taken by the patrol.

He reined in to attend to the voices. When they became three, their volume increased. Then came laughter.

Does Richarde live? he wondered. Is he conscious? Does he despair of rescue?

“A fire,” Lady Fira whispered at the same moment he saw the distant flicker.

“Oui, they make camp.”

She looked around. “What do you intend?”

He was ashamed by how quickly he averted his eyes from her appealing face. “To free my man.”

“This night?”

“If possible.” He reined aside. “Once the horse is watered, we find a good vantage to keep the fire in sight. Then I plot.”