Torrent (18 page)

But why did I keep thinking about Rodolfo, keep wondering what it would have been like to share just one more kiss?

No.
No.
If I was going to stay in ancient Toscana, it had to be Marcello that I married. And it had to be soon. Just in case…

But how on earth was I going to convince my parents?

Tomas pulled up, and I went a few paces farther before I realized I’d left him behind. I circled my horse around, trying to see his face in the dark, but could only see his upheld hand, as if he was telling me to shush.

I couldn’t hear anything. I glanced to the east and saw that the sun was beginning to rise.

But that was when I saw my gelding’s ears again prick forward and heard it myself.

We’ve got company. A lot of company.

I turned, and Tomas pulled alongside me.

“Do you have a weapon, Father?”

“None but the Lord.”

Great,
I thought. I was all for God watching after us, but what I needed at that moment, judging from what was coming our way, was an armory. And men to utilize the weapons inside.

“Ride hard, Father. And stay with me.”

“Every step, m’lady.”

We surged into motion, trying to see the road ahead, help our horses avoid holes and branches. But it proved easier to let them have some free rein, trying to pay attention to their signals that told us to prepare for them to slow or dodge or pulse forward. The animals seemed to understand that we did not want to be caught by those behind us. Maybe Father Tomas’s prayers were working.

I struggled to keep my seat and was glad I had a regular saddle beneath me. I had no idea how Tomas was managing, bareback.
That truly is a miracle.

As the sun illuminated the eastern hills and my gelding found a stretch of sure road and cast himself headlong down it, I dared to glance under my right armpit.

A group of twelve men was riding in, fast, from our right flank. My heart exploded inside me. It was almost painful. But it got worse. I glanced under my left arm next, and I seriously thought I was having a heart attack. An identical group was coming in from the other direction. I leaned down, trying to make myself more aerodynamic, to coax every second of lead we could get. But Father Tomas was not as fast. He was slipping behind me, his weight and lack of a saddle holding him back.

“Go ahead, m’lady! They will not kill a priest!”

I did as he said, eight paces ahead of him, then nine. But I wasn’t so sure. An excommunicated priest, once in Lord Greco’s employ? Hanging out with the escaped Lady Betarrini? He’d be tried for treason, tortured, killed. No one would speak for him. Not the Church, which had disowned him. Nor Lord Greco, who continued to hide his true sympathies, his true feelings.

I groaned inside.
God, a little help here?

We veered to the right and followed an old trail, still heading due north. A moment later I glimpsed the U-shaped indigo span of Lago di Vico. My heart sank as I realized I’d drifted east during the night’s journey, as well as northward.
No wonder they found us.

The trail followed the edge of an old limestone canyon, with a steep drop on one side, forcing us closer to those troops chasing us from the right flank. I urged my horse forward, willed him to give me everything he had, well aware that our pursuers were drawing nearer with every stride. But I could see that none drew arrows.

They intended to take me alive.

Which was both good and bad news.

Terror at what Father Tomas had described rang through me. I was no longer paying attention to him, solely focused on reaching safety.
There’s no way, no way I’m letting them haul me back to Roma. No way I’m marrying Rodolfo tonight and sharing my bridal chambers with four Old Dude observers.

No. Way.

I heard a man cry out and looked back to see Tomas sitting ramrod straight, his face a mass of pain. An arrow was sticking through his shoulder.
Oh, God, no!

I started to pull up on my reins, but Tomas saw what I was doing and waved me on. “Go, m’lady, go!”

But I was conflicted. I’d left men behind before. In the battle so many had died, protecting me, keeping others from reaching me—Giovanni, Pietro…Could I bear the burden of yet another man’s life?

The priest’s face grew more alarmed. And angry. “Go! Off with you! Now!”

Deciding then, I dug my heels into the horse’s flanks, and we were once again rolling at full speed. But I’d lost some precious seconds. The knights who chased me were so close, I could make out the color of their eyes. They wore the deep green colors of Lord Vivaro’s crest, and I knew they had but one goal: to bring me back, to right the wrong done against their master.

The front man, closest to me, appeared to be their captain. With sandy hair and blue eyes, he had that rugged, stalwart, determined, Germanic look about him. And all that determination was focused on me.

I finally outpaced them, reaching the place they would intersect my path and be forced to follow, now just ten or twelve strides behind. I leaned down again, as low as I could, feeling the churning motion of my mount, seeking to become one with him, making his burden easier. In a few minutes I had widened the distance between us to fifteen strides. Then twenty.

I dared to hope, hope that I could outrun them for good. But the ravine continued to wind its way along a tiny stream at the bottom, apparently a winter and spring runoff that fed the lake in the distance. And the canyon was deep. Like the arroyos we had at home in Colorado, with steep cliffs of clay-like dirt eaten away by sudden rains and swelling, temporary rivers below. The cliff was probably fifty feet high and a good seventy-five-degree angle. I’d never attempted to go down anything close to it on horseback.

But if I leaned back…

I’d still likely fall, break my neck.

My only chance is to outrun them.
I leaned down again, letting the horse move, move with everything he had in him. After a minute, maybe two—when I couldn’t stand it any longer—I looked again at my pursuers and smiled.

Only half were still behind me, and they were now thirty or forty strides behind. It was working. I was outrunning them!

I smiled and had my first thoughts about getting to safety and then, somehow, stealing back to their camp at night and helping Tomas gain his freedom. They’d not be kind to the fat priest. They’d ask him why he was with me, claim he had assisted my escape. Maybe even toss him in prison. I couldn’t let that happen. And the arrow—I had to help him get rid of that arrow—

I gasped and pulled up on the reins, finally figuring out why the rest of the men weren’t behind me. I hadn’t outrun half. They had split off and met the road again, beyond the shallow hills. Cutting me off.

My gelding came to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust. I wheeled him around, and we took a few steps up the hill, thinking my only chance was to cut between them, escape right down the center.

But then six men crested the hill.

I pulled abruptly up on the reins again and my horse whinnied, letting me know his frustration. But he was a finely trained mount. Lord Zinicola had seen to it that I had the best. A horse I could trust.

They spread out in a semicircle, two deep, making sure there was no escape for me. And they slowed to a walk, casually moving forward. Three men surrounded Father Tomas, who slumped over, now their prisoner.
How bad is the blood loss?

“Come, m’lady,” said the young, blond captain, drawing my attention again. He smiled, and his blue eyes glittered with pleasure. “You have given us a fine chase, like any wild mare. But ’tis time to return home. To submit to the bit and reins.”

The other men laughed as I wheeled around and eyed the ravine at my back.

“I am no wild mare,” I grit out, my gelding dancing beneath me, nervous at their approach. “And I shall not be tamed by any
bit
or
reins
.” I gave their lineup one last look, confirming what I already knew.

There was only one way out.

“Nay,” said the captain with a smile of admiration. “You are no mare, but the true She-Wolf of Siena. As vital and intriguing as the legends boast.”

They edged forward, now just ten paces away. A few were dismounting. They’d come after me and grab my reins and then it’d be Game Over.

“You haven’t seen nothin’ yet,” I muttered in English.

Then, just as the first man reached for them, I ripped the gelding’s reins to my right and kicked his flanks as hard as I could.

Chapter Sixteen

We pretty much flew over the edge.

I leaned back, as far as I could, knowing I’d have to rely on the strength of my legs and my mediocre sense of balance if I was to have half a chance. I released the reins, needing both my arms outstretched. I took a breath before we finally touched ground for the first time.

The combination of momentum and gravity threatened to immediately unseat me. I folded forward, only narrowly holding on, squeezing with every ounce of strength I had in me. The gelding slid and then gathered himself to leap again, and we sailed another nine or ten feet before he hit the ground a second time. I got my first twinge of hope—
we just might make it
—as he leaped a third time. It was upon that third landing that I finally lost my grip and fell to one side, so fast that I was off his right flank and rolling down the embankment before I fully understood what was happening.

Over and over I went, growing dizzy, swallowing dirt, feeling clods of it brush through my hair, go up my nose…When I finally came to a stop, I paused, took a coughing, sputtering breath, and then leaped to my feet.
Whoa, too fast.
The canyon tilted and whirled like nature’s carnival ride until I took several breaths. My vision came into focus.

And what I saw terrified me.

My gelding was on the far side of the trickle of a stream, limping badly.

Two men had tried to follow me over the edge, but both had fallen. One lay still, face down on the canyon wall. The other was making his way toward me, taking big, sliding, dusty leaps down the rest of the way. I scanned the rim, high above, and saw the backs of men as they raced down the canyon road, no doubt looking for an alternate route down to me, or at least to surround me once I came up again.

This is not looking good, Gabs. Not good at all.

The knight was getting closer. I turned and ran toward my horse, toward the scabbard that held my sword, but my action spooked him, and he skittered off again. Forcing myself to slow down, I walked toward him, cooing to him, trying to ignore that the dude on the other side was now just twenty feet away. I kept looking over my shoulder in this exaggerated slow move—literally doing my own slow-motion action sequence—so I wouldn’t scare the horse, but I only had seconds before the dude reached me.

I concentrated on the horse, easing over to him as the man caught his attention too. I could see his foreleg was bleeding; his riding days were definitely over.
I’ll have to get out of here on foot, right after I take care of this—

I grabbed the sword and pulled it out just as the gelding decided he’d had enough and limped away again. I turned and met the surprised knight with a strike that he barely blocked.

He was my height, panting, as dirty as I probably was, and held my sword against his, above his head. Our faces were maybe a foot apart, our arms above us, like some sort of Death-by-Tango move. “I do not wish to harm you, m’lady,” he panted.

“Good. Then don’t,” I panted in return, in English.

I dodged, turned, and brought my sword around, which he again parried. After two more strikes I became dimly aware of shouting and laughter above us. The men were now on either side of the canyon and were watching us as if we were gladiators in the Coliseum. But my opponent wasn’t going for the kill—he was clearly going for the capture. Again and again, I brought my sword toward him, but all he did was meet each one with his own to block it. With each strike there were groans and gasps and shouts above us. They were like a bunch of construction workers on lunch break watching one of the toughest moments of my life come down before them.

“Take care! She has a dagger!” cried one of the knights, as I quietly slipped it from the rope at my waist. It was a miracle it hadn’t dropped away when I fell—or that I hadn’t stabbed myself as I rolled. I clamped my lips shut, concentrating on the guy in front of me. I knew it wouldn’t be long until Mr. Blond Captain grew tired of such games and sent still more men down to fetch me.

This had to end. Fast.

And yet we were both getting more tired by the second. Sword fighting was like doing power aerobics with a thirty-pound weight in my hands. We circled each other, swords lowered, with me considering how I might escape or end it and him likely considering how to grab me without hurting me. That had to be what was holding him back. He was clearly stronger.
Don’t hurt the merchandise,
I could almost hear Lord Vivaro saying.…

So if I couldn’t beat him by strength or skill, I had to outsmart him.

Or outrun him.

“Come, m’lady,” he said warily, noting my hesitation. “Surely you see that there is no way out.”

I paused. There was
always
some way out.

“What is to become of me?” I asked in a whisper, begging him to think he was my confidante, my protector in some odd fashion.

The hardness around the edges of his eyes eased. “It shall be a trying two days for you. And then it will be well. You shall be Lady Greco de Firenze, the envy of many.”

“I am so weary,” I said forlornly, as if I might suddenly dissolve into sobs. “So very weary.” It was an easy act for me, because I was so tired. But when his sword lowered and he reached out his hand for mine, adrenaline surged through me. I whirled and struck, as if on automatic cycle.

I hit him with the flat of my blade at the back of the head, hoping to merely render him unconscious. I didn’t ever want to kill another who wasn’t out for my blood. There’d already been so much death.

His companions up top audibly drew a breath—it was like an amphitheater of sound down below—and my opponent stared at me in shock—his eyes saying,
How could you do that?
Then he fell to his knees and to his stomach like a floppy, dead fish, face down in the crusty sand of the riverbed.

I bent, turned his head so he could breathe, felt for a pulse—
he’ll live
—and then surged into a run down the canyon. My only hope was that those in pursuit above would hit an obstacle, keeping them from tracking me, or maybe I’d hit a second ravine that branched off this one so I could ditch them altogether.

I didn’t know how many more man-to-woman combat scenarios I could survive. I concentrated on the path before me, jumping from rock to rock rather than sinking into the fine, crusty, sandy dust of the riverbed. I knew that some of the knights had gone ahead to try and find a way down, cut me off, now that I had chosen a direction for escape. The others followed along at their leisure, taunting me, yelling down at me.

“Give in, She-Wolf!”

“You make something so simple, so difficult!”

“You are trapped! There is no way out!”

“Return to your proper place—this is hardly suitable!”

But their taunts only made me more determined. I ran faster, harder, smarter, and was pleased when they had to up their pace on either side to keep up with me. The taunting eased as the canyon widened and deepened and they grew farther from me. I could feel their fear—that I really might find a way out of this trap—and that fear fed my momentum.

I turned a corner in the arroyo and then another, choosing to stick with the deepest canyon each time, wanting to keep the barrier of height from my potential captors as long as possible.

I ran for a mile, maybe two, wondering where this arroyo might end, when I might finally lose the knights and climb my way to freedom, when I saw them.

Three knights, casually moving my way.

I stopped. Stood tall. Hoped I didn’t look scared enough to pee my pants.

The blond captain was dead center, his mount’s hooves splashing in the shallow remains of the river. Two fearsome knights followed slightly behind, flanking him on either side.

I couldn’t imagine turning, outrunning them over the last miles I’d just covered. On foot? No way.

This is it,
I thought.
It’s over.

But I’m not going down without a fight.

I wanted my last stand to be epic. To fight in a manner that would be a credit to female knights for years to come. But…uh, yeah. It really didn’t come down that way.

From twenty feet away, Blondie casually dismounted. He didn’t even draw his sword. He just strode toward me, and his demeanor told me that he was clearly here to end this.

At the ready,
said my father’s voice in my head.

I lifted my sword, dropped one foot back. If they wanted me, they would have to take me kicking and screaming.

I wished they were here, my family. Lia, picking off these guys—and those arriving above—with arrows. Mom, standing beside me, ready to take on her share with that rockin’ staff. Dad…Well, maybe he would be better with his sword right now. I’d take him too. I’d take any of them. Because right then, I felt desperately, feverishly alone.

Blondie was still striding toward me, not pausing, not drawing his sword. It scared me—his total and complete confidence—and then I steeled myself, knowing that was exactly what he was after. Off his steed he was taller than I’d thought, a good three inches taller than I. And as broad and strong as Marcello and Rodolfo.

I bit my lip and lashed out at him with my sword when he came into range.

But he anticipated my move. Bent backward, watching the blade pass his chest by an inch, as if that was exactly what he had planned.

I turned, letting the momentum of the sword carry me, as I took a step back and then brought it down, two-handed toward his head.

He blocked my strike by grabbing my arm with both of his.

I’d never encountered such a move. I stood there, staring into his eyes in shock.
He’d never drawn his sword.

“It ends here, She-Wolf,” he said.

I was reaching for my dagger when I felt an iron hand grab my wrist and shake it loose. Massive arms engulfed me from behind and separated me from my sword.

One of the huge knights dragged me along—my feet barely touching the ground—and didn’t even react as I hit and kicked and scratched and even bit him. We finally came to a stop, and I looked up.

Blondie was already on his mount and looked tiredly down at us. “Hand her to me,” he said with a sigh, as if he was asking for a pack of mints or a map.

Burly Knight tossed me up, halfway, and Blondie hauled me the rest of the way up and over the horse, so I was sitting directly in front of him, basically in his lap. “Ah no, She-Wolf,” he said in my ear, reading my mind. “You shall not have access to my back at any point in time.” He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer, as if he owned me.

Which he pretty much did at that moment.

Yeah, soak it up, Jerk. You think you have me…
I shoved down a surge of fury and frustration. It’d be better if I could get out, escape up top, away from this cursed canyon. It was a death trap.

We rode out the way they had come, to a place in the arroyo that broadened, flattened, and made for easy entry…or exit. Blondie and the rest of the men were largely silent, which unnerved me more than taunting and bantering. And I was soon stiff, trying not to lean into Sir Blondie’s massive chest behind me. Would we ride all the way back to Roma this way? I hoped not.

Marcello. I need you!

I chastised myself for my stupid hopes of rescue.
How many times does he have to save you, Gabi?

Well, if he wants me here, if he wants me as his own, he had better step up to the plate…because I’m seriously afraid I’ve just struck out for the third time.

We paused at the top of the canyon, and I could see half the men heading toward us, the others waiting on the opposite side. At the sight of me in their captain’s arms, they cheered, their call coming down the arroyo like the blast from a trumpet.

Captain Blondie laughed. I felt the rumble in his chest, behind me.

“Take your ease, m’lady. Your flight is over. You’ve done your best to preserve your will, your honor. And now you must bend to the forces of the gods. For they’ve surely thrown in their shoulders against you.”