that reminded her of the times she’d been in the woods on May Day, or Midsummer’s Eve, and heard murmurs and mutterings and soft cries in the dark. creeping forward to see what those sounds meant. seeing couples in passionate embraces, doing much more than kissing …
What would it be like to be in Sir Oliver’s arms? After all, she was no novice hoping to be a bride of Christ. When she’d vowed never to marry, she hadn’t promised to be celibate.
Nevertheless, that didn’t mean she was willing to make love with any handsome man who crossed her path. It would be too great a risk, especially if she got with child. Who could say what King John might do if he realized her value in marriage had been so drastically reduced?
Despite the risk, for once, she was sorely tempted, as well as curious to know about the handsome, chivalrous Sir Oliver, who must be visiting some noble or rich commoner who had a manor in this area. Perhaps Dicken, the wagon’s driver who’d been to this part of the country before, would know.
Moving from the cushions, she lifted the heavy canvas flap that separated the bed of the wagon from the driver’s seat. Dicken’s bulk took up most of the seat, but she could still see Iain, back straight, helmet gleaming, riding at the head of the men as if he were the king.
He was also looking at a parchment he held in his right hand.
In all the years of his service at Averette, she’d never, ever known Iain Mac Kendren to receive any kind of letter or message. Indeed, she was rather surprised to discover he could read.
Maybe that was a message come from Averette—but surely he would have said if he’d had word from Gillian. It could be from Adelaide at court, she supposed, but that seemed even more unlikely. Perhaps it was something personal, although it was difficult to imagine what that would be. Iain had no family that she was aware of.
Maybe it was a list of some kind, for arms or armor or men. Surely it wasn’t anything very important, or he would have told her, she thought, dismissing her concern. “Dicken?”
The driver snorted out of a doze. “My lady?”
“Do you know what noblemen have estates hereabouts?”
“No, um, no, my lady, can’t say as I do. Iain probably does. Want me to call him back here?”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll ask him when we get to the inn,” Lizette replied.
“My lady?”
Lizette glanced back at her maidservant, who was rubbing her sleepy eyes.
“How much longer do you think it’ll be until we reach the inn?”
“I don’t know,” she replied with a sigh, wondering if she would ever see Sir Oliver de Leslille again. “Not much longer, I hope.”
She was about to lower the flap when she saw another armed party approaching on the road ahead.
“Who’s that?” Dicken mused, echoing her own thoughts.
Perhaps it was Sir Oliver and the rest of his hunting party, she thought eagerly, until she recognized the man at the front of the group. It was most definitely not the handsome, broad-shouldered Sir Oliver. “Why, that’s Lindall!”
The short, stocky second-in-command of the garrison of Averette should be there, not riding toward them.
Had something happened at home?
Keldra joined her at the front of the wagon, looking out the narrow gap. “What’s he doing here?” she asked, as worried as Lizette.
“He’s probably been sent to escort us, too,” Lizette replied, trying to set the girl at ease and calm her own fears, as well.
But the fear would not be quelled, for she didn’t recognize any of the men riding with him. Worse, they didn’t look like soldiers of Averette; in their various bits of armor and leather, they looked like a motley collection of outlaws or mercenaries.
“I don’t like the looks o’ this,” Dicken murmured as he reached for the hilt of the dagger he carried in his belt. “Best go back into the wagon, my lady, until we know what’s afoot.”
Keldra immediately ducked inside and cowered among the cushions.
Lizette lingered longer, driven by curiosity. She watched as Iain drew his horse to a halt. He addressed Lindall, and his helmeted head turned as if he, too, were surveying the band of men.
And then, so quickly she could scarcely believe it, Lindall drew his sword and struck Iain down.
CHAPTER TWO
THE UNPREPARED SCOT fell from his horse and hit the ground with a sickening thud. Blood poured from the gash in the right shoulder of his mail.
Crying out in dismay, Lizette rose, hitting her head on the frame of the wagon’s roof. Dicken cursed and slapped the reins hard on the horses’ backs. They lurched forward, sending Lizette tumbling backward into the bed of the wagon, where she landed on top of a shrieking Keldra. Around them, men shouted, horses whinnied and neighed, and in the next instant, they heard the clash of sword on sword.
The wagon jolted backward, then forward, as the cursing Dicken tried to control the team. Holding tight to the back of his seat, Lizette struggled to her knees and attempted to see past the big man’s shifting body through the flapping canvas opening.
It was as if they were caught in the heart of a melee, or two clashing armies.
Where was Iain? She couldn’t see him. Nor could she tell which side was winning.
Then she spotted Iain on the ground. He wasn’t moving.
Sweet Savior, Iain—the best soldier in Averette—wasn’t moving.
More of their men were on the ground, some bloody. Several more were fighting, swinging their swords from horseback, or engaging their opponents on the ground. Riderless horses ran from the road, the whites of their eyes showing, frantic from the smell of blood. The team harnessed to the wagon jostled one another, unable to escape.
Her sore head throbbing, Lizette pushed the sobbing Keldra away and grabbed a small wooden chest. She threw open the lid and found the dagger buried beneath her undergarments.
Dicken yelped. The wagon tilted precariously to the left like a ship in a stormy sea, then fell back hard on its right wheels as Dicken tumbled backward into the wagon, his large body catching the canvas partition and ripping it from its supports.
An arrow was lodged in his chest. Blood spread out from the wound and his eyes stared, unseeing, at the now-bare frame of the wagon’s roof.
Keldra began to wail. Lizette clutched the dagger and tried to think. They had to get away from here. If the men were all preoccupied by battle, if they were concerned with their own lives, she and Keldra might be able to escape.
Inspired by that hope, she grabbed hold of Keldra’s arm and pulled her to the rear of the wagon. “We have a chance, but we’ve got to run!”
Putting the dagger between her teeth
