The Laird's Captive Wife. Joanna Fulford
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mail and helmets.
‘Dear God,’ she murmured.
How had they found her? What evil chance had led them here? Were they the same men who had followed her before? Then she realised it didn’t matter. They were Normans. If they caught her she was dead anyway. The thought awoke fierce resentment. If she was going to die she would at least give these scavengers a run for their money. Quickly she gathered the reins and mounted.
As she did so the riders began to advance at a walk, closing in on their quarry. Ashlynn took a deep breath and spurred the horse forward, moving from a standing start to a canter, heading for the gap between the nearest horsemen. Her only chance was to try and barge through them. However, they anticipated it, moving swiftly to intercept her, narrowing the space, cutting off the escape route. Ashlynn reined and the mare wheeled round. Then seeing another gap she drove forward again. For one brief moment she saw the open ground beyond their horses and thought she might reach it. Then they closed on her and a strong hand seized her reins and yanked hard, bringing her mount to a plunging halt. She could see the wolfish smiles on the faces all around her. For a moment she closed her eyes, fighting the threatening faintness. When she opened them it was to see a mounted Norman knight in front of her. The cold eyes raked her from head to toe and she saw him smile before turning to his nearest companion.
‘A pretty wench, De Vardes.’ The words were spoken in the Saxon tongue though heavily accented.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Well worth the chase, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Indeed, my lord.’
Ashlynn kicked her mount forward in one last futile attempt to break free. The animal plunged but the grip on the bridle held firm. The Norman surveyed the proceedings with evident amusement.
‘Whither away, wench? Surely you would not deprive us of your company so soon?’
She looked around in mounting panic at the ring of grinning faces.
‘Get her off the horse.’
Men moved to obey. In spite of her resistance strong hands dragged her from the saddle. With pounding heart Ashlynn watched the knight dismount and move towards her. All her instinct was to flee but the two soldiers on either side held her fast. Then she was face to face with her captor.
‘Did you really think to escape?’ A mocking smile twisted his lips as he ran his gaze over her. ‘Of course you did. You couldn’t know that Waldemar de Fitzurse never loses his quarry.’
Ashlynn’s eyes blazed with rage and hatred. ‘Murderers! Norman brutes!’
The words ended in a gasp for he hit her hard, a stinging blow that brought the water to her eyes. Warm blood trickled from her lip.
‘These rebellious northern swine must be taught better manners.’ The words were quietly spoken but the tone sent a chill through her.
‘Shall I kill her now, my lord?’ The man called De Vardes stepped forward with a drawn dagger.
Ashlynn felt a hand in her hair yanking her head back and then the icy point at her throat, but her eyes never left Fitzurse. He would give the word now and all this would end with one welcome thrust of the blade.
‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘I am minded to have her first.’ His hand casually brushed across the front of her gown. Ashlynn glared at him. The Norman’s smile widened. ‘I detect defiance here that would be humbled. The rest of you may take your turns when I’m done. If she’s still alive after that then she’s all yours, De Vardes.’
Ashlynn’s stomach lurched. The swift death she had hoped for would not come. They intended to make her long for it instead. She saw Fitzurse glance over his shoulder towards the barn.
‘Take her in there and strip her.’
Chapter Two
As they dragged her back towards the ruined building Ashlynn began to shout and fight like one possessed, her screams shattering the still morning air. It availed her nothing. If anything it seemed only to add to the enjoyment of the men who held her. They reached the barn and, kicking the door open, strode inside with Fitzurse following at leisure a few paces behind. Dry mouthed with horror Ashlynn struggled harder but in vain for they held her with ease. One man pinioned her arms while the other unfastened her cloak and let it fall, his hand moving across her breast with coarse and deliberate slowness. She shivered as he stepped in closer and gripped the neck of her gown. For one moment her gaze met his and saw the mocking smile before he ripped the cloth apart in one sharp downward jerk. Never taking his eyes off her face he did the like with the kirtle beneath pulling the material wide to reveal her breasts. Only then did he glance lower and the cold eyes glinted in evident appreciation. He was not alone.
‘Well, now, a very pretty little chicken,’ said Fitzurse. ‘I would see more, Duchesne.’
His henchman grinned. ‘As you wish, my lord.’
Ashlynn trembled as his hands reached for the fabric of her gown.
Outside among the trees at the top of the sloping pasture another group of horsemen drew rein in obedience to their leader’s command. Mounted on a dapple grey stallion he held the powerful horse in check with one gauntleted hand while his keen gaze swept the scene taking in the barn and the group below. Then he glanced at the man beside him.
‘It seems our information was correct, Dougal.’
‘Aye,’ replied his lieutenant. ‘It has to be them.’
‘It’s them all right. That blue roan destrier down yonder belongs to De Vardes. The cur never strays far from Fitzurse’s heel. In any case they’ve left a trail of devastation that a four-year-old child could follow.’
‘Aye, Reedham, Welbourne, Heslingfield.’ The other shook his head in disgust. ‘The cowardly dogs attack women and children because they like the certainty of winning, my lord.’
‘Let’s shorten the odds and find out how they greet our Scottish steel. We’ll hit them fast and hard. Pass the word back.’
As the latter hastened to do his bidding the rider on the grey horse never let his gaze shift from the scene in front of him. A few moments later he heard the soft scraping sound that accompanied the drawing of many swords. Then Dougal returned, blade at the ready, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes.
‘Just say the word, my lord, and let us at them.’
His laird nodded. ‘Kill as many as you can. We’ll take no Norman prisoners. But remember…’
‘Aye, I know. Fitzurse is yours.’
‘That he is. The bastard little dreams this day is his last.’
Lifting his sword arm he touched the grey with his spurs and called the charge. Quivering with excitement the big horse leapt forward, hearing behind the echoing battle cry as fifty riders burst from cover and hurtled down the slope toward the foe.
Taken completely by surprise the Normans could at first only stare at the advancing tide of horsemen. Then, as they awakened to the impending danger, the instinct for self-preservation returned. Amid shouting and confusion they scrambled to remount, turning then to face the enemy with scant time to draw their swords before the Scottish vanguard was upon them in a deadly wave of steel.
The laird’s blade cleaved its first skull and came back for a wicked lunge into the next opponent. He heard the death scream and was aware of the rider toppling sideways even as a third opponent closed in. Since both hands were engaged with sword and shield he used his seat and legs to guide the powerful horse beneath him. At the given signal the grey reared, striking out at the enemy with its iron-shod hooves. Thrown off balance by the attack the bay destrier screamed and staggered, its rider crying out in agony as half a ton of targeted power drove downward, cracking bone and driving steel links through leather and padding into the flesh beneath. Grey-faced and swaying in the saddle the rider swore