food. A small boy stared up at her, his blue eyes wide. With a smile Ceridwen knelt to his level.
His mother ran to him and swept the boy into her arms. “Get away from decent folk, wanton. Go on with ye. Go!”
More people stopped to stare and whisper. The ill will they had summoned at the sight of Lord Alonso was now directed at her. A youth reached down and gathered a fistful of stones. To proclaim her worth would be a waste of time. These English needed someone to hurt, someone who could not retaliate.
Ceridwen eased her way through the villagers. She could feel their hostile stares, and sensed their restraint would be short-lived. She lengthened her stride, but something whistled past her ear even as a hard object struck her back. She flung her mantle aside, the better to run, and her pursuers might be satisfied with such a fine garment.
Ceridwen left the jeering villagers behind and tore across a fallow field towards the woods. For now, that was the only place to hide. The trees were old, majestic, their trunks thick and gnarled. As she ran scarlet and yellow leaves blew around her feet. Yew and ash, oak and linden rustled in the freshening breeze, beckoning her to take their shelter. A path disappeared into the dense array of trees.
Winded, she slowed and tried to focus on which way to go. But panic still claimed her. All the fear and pain and uncertainty of the past few days surged anew, bursting into a conflagration of emotions Ceridwen could no longer control.
She grabbed up her skirts and ran on. Brambles slapped at her, scratching her face and tearing at the green wool of her overgown. Her trailing hems, already soiled, grew heavy with mud. She raced against the heartbreak threatening to overwhelm her. Nothing mattered but to outdistance the pain.
Her breath rasped, and blood pounded in her aching temples. She would run until her heart burst and she was free of earthly bounds. Perhaps God would then forgive her for still harboring the wicked, unseemly passion of vengeance for Owain.
Ceridwen careened on, blinded by tears and her own shortsightedness. She collided with a solid object that had not been there a moment before. Thick arms engulfed her in a stink of rancid pork fat, sour ale and unwashed humanity.
“Oy! Hold on, what have we here?” A beefy young man swung her around, casually trapping her against a tree trunk.
Breathless, Ceridwen stared up at his sweaty face, too close to her own. Her heart sank. Wild beasts were one thing. Beastly men were quite another. She fought to free herself.
He grinned, snaggletoothed.
The tree bark dug into her back. “Let me go. I—I bear a message for my lady. You will have cause to regret delaying me.” She regretted her lack of skill at telling falsehoods, not to mention her imperfect command of English.
“Your lady, eh? I doubt that, since there ain’t none in these parts. Where’s the message then? Where have ye hid it on yer fine wee person?” His hand plunged between her breasts.
Ceridwen ducked under his arm, but the man caught a fistful of her loose hair and slammed her back against the tree. She gasped in pain as her already sore head bounced on the wood, and for once regretted not cutting her hair short, as did most of her countrywomen.
“Don’t be runnin’ off now, pretty.” His voice was congenial, his touch vicious. One greasy palm slid from her cheek to squeeze her throat. Deftly he pulled up her skirts with the other, climbing her thigh as she choked in his grip. She had the distinct impression he’d done this before.
“Ready for me now, wench? Hmm?”
Thick fingers kneaded her buttock. Pools of black flowed into her vision, spread, and merged. Ceridwen fought desperately to breathe, to knee him. She twisted her head. His hand slipped from her neck to grab at her breast. He laughed.
“Think yer too good fer me? Well, I’ll make ye rue that pride, girl. I’ll humble ye right proper.”
Ceridwen inhaled deeply through her mouth. She lunged and bit down on his wrist. Tendons rolled beneath her teeth. The young man howled and began to throttle her in earnest. Her feet left the ground as he lifted her by the neck. She tried to kick but her legs would not obey. Ceridwen shut her eyes. She would die…she had to breathe…
“Come away, my lord. We have avoided Alonso thus far and there’s no time for sport.”
“Go on, then,” came the curt reply.
The foreign, male voices barely registered as Ceridwen struggled for her life. A rumble of hoofbeats vibrated through the tree at her back. Faintly, through the roaring in her ears, she heard a hideous growl. Then her assailant grunted, and his hands fell from her body.
A searing pain lanced Ceridwen’s abdomen, right below her ribs. She dropped to the ground like a sack of meal. Gratefully, she sucked in lungfuls of air. Never had the simple act of breathing been so sweet. Gulping air until the pain in her middle forced her to stop, Ceridwen lay in a heap and shivered, her eyes clenched shut, forcing back tears.
A hand slipped beneath her neck and gently raised her head. Ceridwen thrashed against it until another hand pressed hard on her stomach, right where it hurt the most. She moaned and opened her eyes to gaze into those of a stranger.
Flinty, cold, and blue. A wave of relief washed over her. It was not the same man who had attacked her. But…the accent of nobility, the hard expression. An Englishman. And no common one at that. She stiffened in renewed fear, and slowly, his features resolved into clarity.
What a face to belong to an enemy, she thought, in spite of her alarm. His hair was hidden beneath his mail coif, but his eyebrows and lashes were thick and dark. The clean line of his jaw was shadowed with stubble. He was blessed with a straight, unbroken nose and smooth skin. His mouth was wide, with a small bunch of muscle at each corner. It was a mouth made for smiling, but remained set in a grim line.
“Forgive me, ’demoiselle, for I have wounded thee.” His voice was deep, rich—and devoid of warmth.
“What…wound? What do you mean?” Ceridwen looked down at herself in horrified disbelief. A dark stain seeped in an ever-widening circle from beneath the leather-gauntleted fingers upon her abdomen. “Oh! Oh, it hurts.”
The knight took her hand and pushed it against the warm, sticky mess on her overgown as he slid his own away. She felt a hole in the fabric and another in herself. This could not be happening. Ceridwen watched in dread as he knelt beside her and unsheathed his dagger. But she refused to cry out at the wave of terror his act induced.
“Nay, do not do it. Not yet,” she implored him in a hoarse whisper, her fingertips barely touching his knee. “I have not yet confessed.”
“What? Speak French. Or English.” He frowned and brushed her hand away with an impatient flick of his fingers. He untied his belt, placed it to one side, then hitched a length of his surcoat up into his lap.
Ceridwen had not realized she’d slipped into Welsh. She tried again, barely able to form intelligible words. “The coup-de-grace. Am I mortally wounded? Will I die slowly unless y-you finish me off?” Rising panic urged her to run, but her head spun and her muscles felt like jelly, as though she had been fevered for days. Each breath moved her abdomen and caused fresh shards of pain. Perhaps he was right to put her out of her misery.
An odd look of sorrow flitted across the knight’s face. But it vanished almost before she caught it, to be replaced by a stony, unreadable
