Snow in July (13 page)

“I am sorry.” Alain’s words sounded pitifully inadequate.

Ruaud snorted and bent to secure the pack’s frame. Straightening, he nodded toward their captors. “We should leave while we have the chance.” Urgency dominated his tone.

Alain concentrated on securing the chest to the frame. With luck, he’d be able to recover Waldron’s gold as well as his daughter. Not making eye contact with Ruaud, he said, “This is my only means of locating Kendra. You go, if you must. I will not give up now.”

Ruaud squatted to check the horse’s chest harness. “I expected you to spout some damned foolishness like that.” Standing, he rubbed his jaw and winced when he touched a bruise.

“Why did they—”

“The one called Raven made a suggestion I did not like.” Alain guessed he was referring to Pit’s partner, the dark, angular man. Ruaud looked at Alain with a hint of his usual humor. “I will live.”

“Get over here and make water on the fire,” called Raven from his fireside perch. Alain cocked an eyebrow. “Move your shite-covered Norman arses, or we’ll move them for you!”

A deep laugh rang out. “Think ye King William will pay us double for opening them up a wee bit for him?” Pit, again.

His back to the Saxons, Alain whispered, “She is worth it.”

The look Ruaud shot back as they returned to the outlaws and prepared to carry out their command conveyed the thought that she had damned well better be.

THE DAY dawned cloudless, bright, and hot. Kendra and her captors broke camp early, taking time just to relieve themselves, eat cold travel rations, douse the fire’s remains, and stow the cooking implements. Across ridges, high rolling plains, and valleys, they rode away from the rising sun. Sometimes they rode at a canter or trot, and sometimes they dismounted to lead their animals, the terrain dictating the pace. She couldn’t decide which was worse: the aching muscles, the itchy trickles of sweat on her face and back and legs, the sharp smell of the men and horses, or the bone-deep fatigue.

Or the festering worry that she would never see anyone she loved again.

With the sun past its zenith, Snake raised his fist, and the party drew rein. For the past hour, they’d been riding the spine of a natural causeway across a marsh. As the causeway narrowed, the swarms of gnats and biting flies intensified. She pitied the horses, whose ears and tails constantly twitched the pests away, to little effect.

At the causeway’s end, the marshy ground yielded to vast swampland. Cattails, horsetails, iris fronds, marsh grass, and other tall, water-loving plants waved in the languid breeze. Willows dotted the swamp, their branches sweeping across the water’s surface as if testing the temperature. Wild geese and ducks abounded, their calls filling the air with noisy abandon, and a heron regally stalked fish in the green-hued shallows.

In the hazy distance stood what looked like an island, though Kendra knew from her mother’s tales that it wasn’t one. The conical hill was called the Tor. Its slopes were cloaked with the ruins of a maze, its summit crowned with a tower. In its bowels, according to local legend, slept the greatest enemy the Saxons had ever known, Arthur of the Britons. Some visitors claimed to have heard the faint but unmistakable sounds of battle. Others swore they’d seen King Arthur in the light of a full moon, spurring a fiery-eyed white stallion and wielding a fearsome broadsword, a fierce black war hound lunging at his side.

She closed her eyes, suppressing a shudder.

But even the thought of being rescued by her people’s ancient enemy—however impossible—seemed more appealing than the wretched reality of her situation.

She heard the creaks and jingling of harnesses as Snake and Rat dismounted and tethered their horses. Not knowing what else to do, she opened her eyes and followed their example, looping Hilde’s reins over a low branch.

Snake stumped over to a massive oak and thrust his arm into a hole in the trunk, to the shoulder. His face contorted in concentration. Finally, his expression transformed into triumph, and he withdrew his hand, clutching a hunting horn that looked to be in far better condition than its lodging suggested. He sucked in a breath, lifted the horn to his lips, and blew a deafening blast.

“What happens now?” she asked him after the ringing in her ears subsided.

Snake replaced the horn, returned to his mount, retrieved food and his wineskin, which had been refilled that morning from a cask stored in the temple, and motioned Kendra to join him in the oak’s shade. She was glad that Rat had chosen to remain with the horses.

“Now, my lady”—Snake passed her hunks of bread and cheese, his grin shifting into a feral cast—“we wait.”

She followed the line of his gaze toward the Tor, mesmerized by the ripples gouged by the relentless wind.

What they were waiting for, she dared not ask.

AN INSISTENT hand shook Waldron’s shoulder. He started awake, trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment that he’d overslept in his chair on the feast hall’s dais with a legion of attendant aches. He pressed a hand to his pounding forehead and winced at the worst ale-head he’d ever experienced. His hand thudded onto the armrest as he remembered why.

His daughter was missing, and his Norman guests had let themselves be captured in a foolish attempt to rescue her, leaving Waldron naught else to do but drink himself into oblivion.

His guard captain came into focus. “Thorgil, what news?” Waldron didn’t voice the vain hope that Thorgil bore tidings of Kendra.

“The patrol found Cæwlin and Oswy, my lord.” The big blond warrior’s face remained impassive, but Waldron read tension in the set of his jaw.

“Dead.” Resignation weighted Waldron’s tone. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back against his chair.

“Oswy is, my lord, though he must have fought bravely,” Thorgil replied. “Cæwlin is still senseless but alive. He suffered an arrow wound. Bassa is tending him.”

Waldron’s eyes snapped open, and he rose. Too quickly; the throbbing intensified, and his senses reeled. Thorgil thrust out his hands to steady him, but Waldron shrugged him off. A welcome sense of purpose displaced the helplessness. “See to it Oswy is buried with the fyrd’s full honors. And have Lofwin report to me at the infirmary with a dozen of his best warriors and scouts.”

“Thane Waldron, is that wise? The outlaws said—”

“I know what the outlaws said.” Not repeating their threats helped to control the brutal imagery of Kendra’s fate, but not by much. “This is why I expect Lofwin to select the best.” Waldron was about to dismiss the warrior when another idea occurred. “And have our fastest courier report to me.”

“Aye, my lord.” Thorgil thumped fist to breast and bowed his head, stepping aside to let Waldron pass.

The warriors lay on adjacent cots in the infirmary. Father Æthelward was administering Oswy’s last rites. Stopping on the threshold, Waldron bowed his head until the priest had finished. Waldron made the sign of the cross against his chest and resumed his course.

No matter how many times he had seen death, on or off the battlefield, he knew he’d never get accustomed to it. Oswy’s strengthening stench, unmoving chest, pale skin, sunken face, and bloodstained tunic and jerkin were bad enough, but Bassa had wrapped his head with a bandage. Even so, it didn’t hide the massive dent in the poor lad’s skull. Waldron’s gut twisted, and he crossed himself again.

“I don’t believe he suffered, my lord,” murmured Bassa behind him. The peaceful cast to Oswy’s features lent substance to the physician’s pronouncement.

“Thank God for small mercies.” He gripped the lad’s sword hand in farewell. To the sound of Æthelward’s soft “Amen,” Waldron faced the cot containing Bassa’s living charge. “And how is Cæwlin? When will he wake?”

Bassa stroked his closely cropped beard. “Difficult to say, my lord. The arrow missed his heart, but the wound is infected. A day, perhaps two—”

“Damn it, man, I need answers now!”

“Which you won’t get, my lord,” said the physician, “if you kill my patient.”

Mentally, Waldron began rehearsing his list of oaths but didn’t get far before recognizing the truth of Bassa’s claim. “Very well. Send me word the moment he wakes.” He turned and started for the door.

“No need, my lord,” said a raspy voice.

Waldron returned to Cæwlin’s side. Bassa pressed a cup to the warrior’s lips. Some of it dribbled out, and Cæwlin sputtered a cough. Waldron felt like quipping,
Now who’s killing the patient?
Instead he asked, “Who attacked you, Cæwlin?”

“Outlaws.” The veteran’s brow creased and his gaze grew distant. “Five. From the west.” He shrugged and winced. “More than that, my lord, I don’t know. What of Lady Kendra?” The fragile hope in his tone shattered Waldron’s heart.

“Being held for ransom.” Shaking his head, Waldron grunted his frustration. “West” could mean anything. Ulfric lived to the west, and so did Cynewulf, Oesc, Wihtred, Thorgud, Edgert, and dozens of other thanes. Waldron didn’t stand on amiable terms with many of them, especially after paying court to King William, but he couldn’t imagine a thane in the lot who would resort to abducting his daughter in retribution. “Think, man. Are you sure you don’t remember anything else? Distinctive clothing, adornments, mannerisms, speech?”

Cæwlin’s fist weakly thumped the cot. “Don’t you think I’d have told you?” His face colored, and he jerked his head aside. “Forgive me, my lord.” Tears sprang from the corners of his eyes.

Waldron laid a hand on Cæwlin’s uninjured shoulder. “I know you did your best, old friend.” He glanced at the adjacent cot.
You and poor Oswy.
Waldron sighed.

The sound of brisk voices caught his attention, and he turned toward it. “Ah, Lofwin, well come.” Waldron made a beckoning gesture. Lofwin ordered his men to wait outside while he entered the infirmary, stepping with catlike grace between men, cots, and implement-laden tables to reach Waldron’s side. “I want you to track the outlaws who left with our Norman guests last night”—he lifted a peremptory finger—“and don’t bother to lecture me about the risks. I’ve heard that one already. I trust you to be quick and quiet.”

Lofwin cracked a grin and bowed. “My lord, not even the deer will mark our passage.”

“God’s speed to you, then,” Waldron said.
You shall need it.
“Send word when you can.”

Lofwin saluted and left with his men.

Cæwlin struggled to rise. Bassa tried to stop him, but the lean physician had trouble keeping his grip on the determined warrior. “Unhand me, you fool-headed physician! I must go with them.”

“The only way you’ll go anywhere is in a box if you don’t heal,” Bassa retorted.

Waldron nodded. “Don’t make me order restraints for you, Cæwlin.” He clapped Cæwlin’s good shoulder. “Heal yourself, and take your vengeance another day.”

The fyrd veteran let out a mirthless laugh. “I hope Lady Kendra will have another day.” Doubt clouded his tone.

Waldron refused to share Cæwlin’s doubts. He drew Bassa aside for assistance in composing a message that would, God willing, add a measure of insurance to his plan.

ALAIN’S HUNGER and thirst, compounded by the brutal pace and even more brutal sun, couldn’t begin to compare with the abominable ache in his shoulders, especially the one that had taken a spear at Hastings. With their wrists bound together and attached to leather leads, he and Ruaud lumbered behind the mounted outlaws, sometimes being forced to break into a trot. Either that or be dragged.