Spring's Fury (7 page)

As Rannulf spoke to his man, Gilliam stared out through the open gate, wondering if he should kill or thank the soldier who led Nicola from the walls. Whether an accomplice or an innocent, if not for that man Gilliam would never have noticed the
boy
or the tunic. He smiled suddenly, impressed by the sheer audacity of Lady Ashby's attempt. No other woman would have had the daring to try it.

"Is that all you need, boy?" Rannulf asked him.

Still grinning, Gilliam patted his elder and shorter brother on the cheek. "My thanks, old man.  It is. Go home to your mild sweet wife, Rannulf, and leave me to mine. I can see I have a far way to go if I'm ever to win from her what I need."

His brother mounted and reined in his big horse as it danced beneath him, anxious to be away. "By the by, I have six marks that say she'll do worse than a pin¬prick in her first week."

"What! You bet against me?! I have twelve that say you’re wrong," Gilliam retorted with a laugh.

"Done," his brother called back as he set spurs to his steed and galloped out the gate.

"Will she really kill you, my lord?" Jos's question had more of awe than fear in it.

"I hope not," Gilliam replied, still smiling "Come, we must change into our riding attire. In less than an hour's time, I will have me a bride, and we'll be bound for home."

Nicola's neck ached from keeping her head bowed and her feet were fair torn to bits by her shoes. Blisters were already forming on her heels and toes. The right boot had a tiny tag of leather along its upper that gouged deeper into her flesh with every step. She glanced up the road. Pain made her slow. Alan and Tilda were now far ahead of her, Tilda perched happily atop the nag.

Jealous hurt seethed in her stomach. After four months of separation from anyone the slightest bit friendly toward her, Nicola desperately needed Tilda's company. Trapped within her was a whole river of thoughts and images, all of which clamored for spilling but only to someone who understood her.

So, too, did Nicola need to hear her friend's tale. She longed to know what it was that brought on Tilda's brief sadness. Instead, Nicola's every attempt at communication had been rebuffed. From the moment they had left the gate, Tilda had kept her attention focused on Alan, as if she truly desired the soldier.

Nicola glowered impatiently at her friend's back as the couple rounded a bend in the road. Although the trees were barren, they grew so densely that the twosome completely disappeared from her view. She released a huff of bitter anger. Friends shouldn't let a man come between them.

As Nicola neared the curve she caught the echo of thundering hooves. A frantic leap sent her sliding across the muddy road and into a thicket. Thorny branches offered little in the way of a shield, but she crouched, rabbit-still, behind the brambles and prayed to remain unnoticed.

Lord Graistan and a few men galloped past, looking neither to the left nor right. A moment later and nothing remained of them save the deep tracks of horseshoes in the muck. Nicola came to her feet and grinned. If they were not scouring the roadside for some sign of her, they must yet believe she was within the town walls.

All thought of Tilda's foolish game with Alan was forgotten in the face of this triumph. Nicola hobbled back onto the roadbed, where she turned an exhilarated pirouette. At long last John of Ashby's daughter was free!

The need to share her victory with someone was so strong Nicola forgot her aching feet. She forced herself into a trot, her hood flying off her head as she ran. By the time she rounded the bend, she was panting against the pain.

Before her the road moved away in a long, straight line, as devoid of life as the skeleton bushes that lined it. She stopped in surprise. Where were Alan and Tilda? Nicola held her place, waiting to see if the couple had also sought refuge while the nobleman passed. No one appeared from the thickets.

Concern nagged at her. With her hand on her dagger's hilt, she started slowly forward. The occasional twitter of winter birds died away into a harsh silence broken only by the rattle of empty branches in the wind. Her cheeks stung with the cold as the mist became an icy drizzle.

"'Tilda" she called out.

Alan stepped out of the bushes. "Ah, there you are," he said, his voice overly hearty in the quiet woods. He stopped as if startled, then stared at her and laughed. "Why,
boy
, you've just extended your life some. Where I thought I'd caught me only a whore and a useless lad, I find instead the prettiest man I've ever met."

"Pretty? What are you prattling about and where is my sister?" Nicola retorted, unable to make sense of his words. Then the cold breeze lifted her curls, reminding her that her hood had fallen.

"One such as you should not claim a relationship with that little slut," he said, speaking in his horrible French. "Come, Lady Ashby. Let me keep you safe from harm until your husband pays your ransom."

Nicola stared at him, too stunned by the fact he'd seen through her disguise to recognize his threat of kidnap. "My pardon," she said gruffly in English, "I do not speak your language."

"Now, now," he replied, still insisting on using her native tongue. "Drop your ridiculous pretense. So comely a lass as you shouldn't try to hide as a man. Come quietly and you'll not be hurt."

Nicola's eyes narrowed as rage burned again within her belly. This commoner thought to take from her the freedom she had worked so hard to gain. Noblemen, churchmen, even a commoner, they all thought they could tell her what to do simply because they were men and she was not.

"Peasant," she snarled in French, "you overstep yourself if you think you can keep me where Lord Graistan could not." She snatched her dagger from her belt and held it at the ready before her. "You'll give me my friend and let us pass unharmed, or I'll carve you like a goose."

"Ladies should not play with knives," Alan warned, his tone patronizing. He reached for her dagger and snatched back a bloody hand. "Damn you, you've sliced my palm clean through," he cried, yet too surprised by her attack to feel pain. "Cease this foolishness and give me that knife." He clumsily threw himself at her.

Nicola laughed in scorn. Did he think she'd stand still whilst he took her down? With a leg, she swept his feet out from beneath him. As he fell she brought the hilt of her dagger down on the back of his unhelmeted head. It met his skull with a satisfying thunk. He dropped face first into the mud.

With a foot braced on his back, Nicola threw aside her dagger and snatched his blade from his scabbard. The feel of his sword in her hands gave her a wondrous rush of confidence. She stepped back and prodded him with his own blade. "Get up peasant, and take me to Tilda."

He came to his knees, beard full of mud, his eyes slightly glazed. "Well, do not simply watch her, you fools!" he shouted in English, spewing muck from his mouth. "We must subdue her, but be you gentle. If her bones are broken, the noblemen will kill us instead of paying for her."

Nicola drew a sharp breath as the road was suddenly alive with shouting, ragged men. Some wore bits of leather armor,  others had cloth hauberks well stuffed to deflect blows. All of them had weapons: daggers, rusted swords, or sharpened staves. Six, there were, not counting Alan, and so filthy that Nicola could smell them as they drew nearer to her. The biggest one held a bruised and disheveled Tilda by the arm.

"Tilda!" Nicola cried out in concern.

Her friend did not even glance at her, instead the girl turned toward Alan. "Listen to what I say," she commanded. "Lord Ocslade will pay you not only for her, but for me, as well."

"Who is this Ocslade?" Alan the thief master asked, cradling his injured hand against his body. "I thought Graistan's brother was to marry her."

"Lord Ocslade is the one who came this morn to halt the wedding." Tilda's voice held a trace of desperation. "He is closer and easier to approach than Graistan, but you cannot reach him without me, for only I know where he waits."

"Waits?" Nicola cried in disbelief. How could Hugh know anything of their plans, when they'd been made only this morn?

Tilda shot her a bleak glance.  Nicola’s heart broke.  In her friend’s face she saw that her escape had been by Hugh's design. If not for this interruption, de Ocslade would have had the advantage of surprise, rendering Nicola helpless against him.

"Alan, you must listen," the girl insisted again, struggling against her captor's hold. "Lord Ocslade will pay whatever sum you ask for Lady Ashby. Let me fetch him here for you."

Alan only sneered at her. "Why little whore, you were hot enough to share my bed only moments ago. Do I now sense you wish to escape the lovely winter we have planned for you? I have a better idea. Why do you not stay here, whilst I find this nobleman of yours? Once I have his ear, I will ask if he truly wishes to buy both a bride and a whore."

"Nay," Tilda shouted, and swung helplessly at the heavy man who held her.

"Stay still now," her captor said, his words as ponderous as he. He curled his fist and seemed to only tap Tilda's jaw. The girl reeled and dropped quietly into the bracken.

Rage overtook Nicola as Tilda fell. No matter what the girl had done Tilda and her kin were the closest thing to family Nicola had left. "Nay, I'll not let you have her to abuse!"

Alan signaled casually to his men. "Take that blade from her."

As they closed around her, Nicola found her first target in an old man with a toothless mouth and skin like leather. Protected by only a tattered cloth vest and armed with a sharpened stake, he cackled like a hen with each tottering step. She lunged for him, her blade coming upward beneath his staff as it aimed for the rent in his vest. Iron bit through the opening, crushing ribs and tearing deeply into softer flesh. He grimaced in pain as she kicked him off her blade only to gag on death’s rapid approach as he fell.

Her stained sword held before her in the defensive stance she’d learned at her father’s side, Nicola shifted backward until she had all the men within her view. Only then did she glance at her gloved hands; they were spattered with the old man's blood. Deep within her there grew a terrible sickness.

In the space of only three breaths, she had ended a life. For all the times she'd threatened to do so, she never dreamed it would feel like this. Nicola slaughtered her cowardly reaction. What was wrong with her? These men meant to take at least her freedom from her, if not her life. 

"Who else wants a taste of what that man ate?" she growled, manufacturing rage to protect her from her woman's heart.

From the corner of her eye Nicola saw Tilda struggle to her feet. Relief washed over her. Surely, if the girl took up the old man's staff, the two of them together could defeat these scummy few. When the threat against them was finished, she and Tilda could talk. No matter what had been done, they could resolve it between them.

"What are you waiting for, you idiots?" Alan screamed, his face red with rage, as he stood behind them. "Take her. She cannot kill you all."

"Take her yourself," one of his men snarled. "We did not expect her to be dangerous."

Alan gnashed his teeth.  "I cannot! She's damaged my sword hand."

"Come try my blade, you reeking bits of ox dung," Nicola goaded in rising confidence as she waited for Tilda to join her. "Aye, come for me with your ancient blades and your wooden sticks. I'll give you a taste of your master's better steel." She lunged at the nearest one. As he whirled away, Nicola caught a glimpse of Tilda. The girl led Alan's nag out of hiding.

Nicola blinked in disbelief as Tilda clambered into its saddle, then set the sorry beast into a trot without a backward look. Abandonment was far worse than betrayal. Swinging wildly in sudden pain, Nicola landed a chance blow, crushing a slender man's shoulder, half-tearing his arm from his body. He rebounded off her blade with no future save the grave. 

The shock of Tilda's deed woke that terrible emptiness in Nicola. She panted as she fought it. There was no controlling herself when this state came upon her.

Too late. All at once, she stood amid an eerie bubble of calm. She watched in detached interest as Alan turned and caught sight of the escaping Tilda. 

"That damn bitch stole my horse! Cowards all," he bellowed at his men, "this is but a woman before you. Take her, then run fetch our whore. Dickon, show these curs how a true man deals with a woman."

At Alan's command, the heavy man who had battered Tilda raised his rusty weapon and started toward her. The only sensation Nicola knew was the tightening of her face as she grimaced.  Nothing, not even fear, lived within her. 

Dickon hesitated, staring at her, his weapon sagging in his hands.

"I like this not at all," a frail lad sniveled. It’s not right that a woman act this way. Look at her, 'tis like she has no soul. She's some sort of a witch. Let her go, Alan, or she'll put a curse on us all."

"I am not afraid of her," mumbled Dickon, then as if spurred to it by the boy’s fear, he again trundled toward her, sword raised high to strike. The wind sent his smell before him. Years of training meant Nicola's body needed no input from her thoughts to respond to his attack.  Her blade came up instinctively to block his blow. Steel grated harshly as iron met iron, then she snapped her blade free and pivoted lithely away, circling to bury his sword deep into his huge middle.

He cried out and fell toward her as she wrenched on her hilt to free her weapon.  It was well and truly stuck in him.  Fearing she’d be be trapped beneath him if he fell on her, Nicola released her sword and stumbled back from him, empty-handed.

"Take her now!" Alan shouted in triumph.

The remaining three fell on her as one, trying to drag her down beneath them. Locked in her cold, empty state, she could not tolerate their touch. She kicked and punched. The frail boy screamed and rolled away, his nose spouting blood. As he sobbed, the other two managed to pin her to the road by lying upon her arms.

"Vicious bitch," Alan snarled, and kicked her in the ribs. Nicola curled away to protect herself from another blow. "You've killed half my men, left me injured, and made me lose my horse and our whore. Perhaps I should replace her with you." He leered viciously at her.

"Me after you, Alan," said one, placing his foul lips on her cheek. "I care not for what she looks like or that I follow another man. You'll yet taste sweet enough to me, lassie." His tongue touched her neck.

Nicola felt nothing, not even revulsion. All that lived within her was the need to win free of their touch. She brought her knees to her chest as Alan grabbed her by her hair. He drew a hand to slap her, and she kicked out. Her heel caught him on the chin. Alan's head snapped back.

He screamed, spittle stained red with blood. He clumsily drew his dagger with his left hand.

As his short weapon descended, Nicola again drew her legs to her chest. His dagger's edge caught her shin, slicing through stockings and skin. She braced her feet against Alan's midsection, lifting the straining man on her feet until he nearly stood upright.

Keeping one foot shoved into his stomach, Nicola drew back the other, aiming for his chest. As she kicked, he thrust hard against her bracing leg, forcing her knee to bend. Instead of his chest, her heel smashed into his throat. Alan's eyes bulged as he caught at his neck, his face going white. He dropped to writhe in agony on the ground.

"Alan!" one of her captors screamed.