between his thumb and forefinger. He then proceeded to slice a large piece of linen from the lining of his surcoat.
“You are not skewered nearly so completely as the knave. I misjudged his girth. From behind I thought him fatter than he was.” He folded the cloth neatly and bound it against her wound with the woven belt.
Relief washed over Ceridwen as she realized the knight had not saved her only to kill her himself. “Mayhap the man was going to stab me anyway,” she said, and flinched as the Englishman gave the binding a final tightening twist. Her glance strayed to the body of her attacker, sprawled on the reddened ground, his mouth gaping. Even as she averted her eyes her stomach lurched.
“He wished to run something into you, that is true.” The Englishman unfastened his mantle and draped the thick gray material about her shoulders.
Ceridwen felt uneasy at these words, but their meaning escaped her reeling mind. She could not seem to stop shaking. Gratitude accompanied warmth as the knight enveloped her in the coarse garment. He scooped her up and, stepping around the dead man’s body, carried her towards his horse. Afraid to look, she hid her face in the hollow of the warrior’s sturdy shoulder.
The mail rings bit into her cheek despite his surcoat, which still smelled like the damp wool of his mantle. She touched her throat as she swallowed. It felt raw inside and tender on the outside. Harness jingled, and she heard the restless stamping of several horses. She peeked out of the corner of one eye.
At least five men waited. They did not appear pleased at the delay. She kept her forehead pressed against the Englishman. He was all that stood between her and the others. She hoped he could control his men. If he had wanted her for himself, she reasoned, he would be pawing her already.
“Let me take the wench for you, my lord,” someone said.
Ceridwen trembled involuntarily.
“Nay.” The knight plucked her arm from his neck and made her stand. “Can you ride pillion and hold onto me from behind?”
Clutching her middle, she looked up at him. At least his un-smiling expression did not belittle her weakness. But those eyes…dark blue, like the sea on a sunny day. Cold and glittering. She shivered. The very timbre of his voice increased the wobble of her knees. She didn’t think she could hold on to anything for much longer.
“Right.” Without waiting for her reply, he deftly unsaddled his horse. She realized he meant her to sit before him, for the war saddle would have left no room. Then, to her acute dismay, he reached down between her ankles. Gathering up the bottom of her skirts, he pulled the back towards the front and on upwards. He thrust the wad of fabric into her hand and boosted her onto the sweaty back of the tall, black destrier.
Astride the horse, Ceridwen wanted to double over in pain, but the snug binding the knight had fashioned for her wound prevented it. Her legs were not covered and she could not help but feel exposed before the foreign warriors. But she was in their lord’s debt.
“I owe you thanks. I owe you my life,” she whispered, and huddled miserably, clutching the horse’s mane with both hands as the animal tossed its head.
“You owe me nothing.” He swung up with ease to sit behind her. “Shift forward a bit. Do not expect me to keep you from falling. I may need both hands free, if we find more trouble.” Thankful for his matter-of-fact tone, Ceridwen obeyed. She stifled a moan as the horse lurched into a canter. The knight slowed the eager animal to a brisk walk.
“Wace.” His words carried despite their low pitch.
A young man’s voice replied, “My lord?”
“Ride ahead. Send someone back for my saddle. And tell Alys to prepare for a belly wound.”
The Englishman’s breath disturbed Ceridwen’s hair and warmed her neck. His resonant voice vibrated from his chest through her back, sending a ripple of sensation up her spine. But even as she felt it, he leaned away and broke the contact.
“Aye, milord.” Wace galloped off, his master’s shield bouncing at his back.
Ceridwen glimpsed the coat of arms. A white stag upon a split field of green, a black dragon coiling below. Her heart faltered and with her sudden intake of breath came a fresh stab of agony in her middle. She bit back a moan. God help her, she was already in the possession of men in the service of Alonso. A black dragon…she must know for certain the identity of the one who held her.
“What do I call you?” Painfully, Ceridwen twisted her head around to look at him. At this range, his features were perfectly clear. Glacial eyes stared straight ahead. His compelling face held no expression. He tipped his head to the side and lifted his chin, avoiding touching her. She saw an old scar in the soft area under his jaw.
Apparently he did not want to answer. Whatever his name, he was just another warring border-lord. But she was fooling herself. Deep inside, she knew exactly who he was.
“Raymond.” He growled the name and still did not meet her gaze as he spoke.
Ceridwen’s heart felt as though it curled into a tight, protective ball, and renewed embarrassment leaped to compete with her fright. She represented her people, and she looked like a ragged mendicant. It was shameful. Beauchamp had picked her up under the most undignified of circumstances. Her good intentions of carrying through with the marriage dwindled in the terrifying face of his physical reality.
She was afraid to tell him who she was. No matter what reassurance her father had given, she had no reason to disbelieve the rumors. And she had heard them aplenty. Bards and wayfarers passing through her father’s lands told tales. Lord Raymond’s reputation was that of a ravening wolf, the worst of the pack headed by his elder brother, Alonso. A cursed, dark knight, folk said.
She stole another glance at his face. Stiff and grim. As though it were set in granite. He had barely glanced at her, and she was grateful for his disinterest. He had wed a lovely maid, so the story went, until one cold night her body was found floating among the reeds in his moat. It was said he caught her with a lover, and in his rage hurled her from the top of the keep. The dead girl had probably been close to her own age. A shudder convulsed Ceridwen and she pressed her arm against the rising clamor of her wound as the horse’s motion rocked her to and fro.
Raymond wrapped his woolen mantle more closely about her body. She shrank from his touch and yet relished the warmth. No doubt he could be charming when he chose to be. Charming but so very wicked. When he gathered up the reins, she saw that the fingers of his gauntlets were soggy and dark. Blood-soaked.
Her blood as well as the villein’s. Her heart protested, but there was no escaping the truth. This man had saved her life, and she was beholden to him. She also belonged to him, even if he did not yet realize it. But for a little time, she could pretend freedom.
For hours they wound through the hilly forest, climbing slowly. She tried to avoid resting against him, but it proved impossible. Her head fell back onto his shoulder when she was too tired to hold it up, and after the first few times he stopped shrugging her off. Her fear gradually eased with the soothing rhythm of the horse’s walk, and her own exhaustion. She drifted in and out of wakefulness, watching the bright sky pale above the silhouettes of swaying treetops.
The daylight waned, and the thick smell of damp leaves gave way to a fresher crispness as they traveled higher. The wind sang through the rowans. If she had not been in such pain, or known who held her, it might have been a pleasant journey.
The
