Chapter 4
She had to fight the waves of fear cascading over her, despite the fact that the wretch was atop her in the pale, wavering moonlight. She could not think clearly if she allowed fear to rule her.
She saw him now far more clearly than she wanted—his form, not his face, for annoyingly, his face was hidden by the shadow of his hood. He was heavily, tautly muscled beneath his encompassing cloak.
The garment gave her pause, and sent her mind spinning once again.
The cloak was wool fashioned in a complex Scottish style, with the strands so tightly knit together to render the garment nearly completely waterproof.
Each strand was colored with vegetable dyes to create a pattern that would signify a certain part of the country or a people.
Talented weavers were creating the tartans more and more often these days, remembering the exact shades and number of dyed strands by marking them upon a stick, so that the coloring could be repeated again and again.
The style of clothing belonged to Scotland, and not to the Normans who had been invited to settle lands at the king’s request. If the garment was any indication of the man, he wasn’t a Norman usurper.
Did it matter what his nationality if he slit her throat and her life bled away, here in the mud?
Slit her throat, with what? Was he armed?
Aye, she thought, he would have a knife sheathed at his calf, just as she had carried.
A sword? He wasn’t wearing a scabbard now, or was he?
Where had he come from? There was a small hut of stone and mud on the riverbank, and a horse grazed nearby.
Was it his boat, or had he come by way of the huge warhorse with the battle accouterments, looming in the shadows?
Would he kill her? What was he doing here, alone, on the embankment? She started to shake; then she was furious with herself. Death was one thing. Dying without a fight was completely another.
“Get off me!” she commanded.
The ox! He ignored her. And she would, she assured herself, prevail.
The man was, she determined, the servant of some greater lord.
A fine example of good Scottish breeding; his height was commanding; his body form and muscle structure were formidable.
He would serve nicely as a knight—he could surely be trained to possess an incredibly powerful sword arm.
Indeed, he was certainly strong enough—all but breaking her into bits now as he straddled atop her.
“Are you daft or deaf? Get off!” she repeated, with confident authority.
Still, he didn’t move. She felt him staring down at her curiously, his face still masked by his hood.
“So a lass would steal a boat,” he said simply.
She could see his torso and legs. Beneath his cloak he wore simple woolen hose, a linen shirt and another overshirt or tunic of like design as his cloak.
His clothing was not of poor quality, but it was muddied as if he had worked or traveled long and hard in it.
Perhaps he could be made to travel just a bit longer, and a bit harder.
“I’m not stealing anything, good fellow,” she said, wincing inwardly as she heard a slight waver in her voice. “I warn you, get off me now!”
To her relief, he listened at last. He stood, catching her hand, dragging her to her feet before him.
He remained very close, and though she was tall for a woman, he was much taller, and his nearness made her more uneasy.
She was alone on a riverbank with a strange man who might well be dangerous, and who may not realize he challenged a ward of the king—and had already had the audacity to wrestle her to the mud.
She had no choice but to hold her ground firmly; one of the first lessons she had learned in life from her warrior father was that you must never let a potential enemy know that you’re afraid.
“You must pay attention now. I’m not a thief!
” She turned her hand over, producing the silver coin she’d intended to leave as payment.
“But I’ve need of transportation south, and am quite willing to pay with this good money.
It seems you’ve been traveling long yourself, but perhaps your master would not know if you traveled a bit longer.
If you’ll take me, you will have the money and your boat, and I can pay even more for your services. ”
“Can you now?”
He reached out, and it took all her courage to remain dead still as he pushed her hood fully back, studying her face in the moonlight.
She thrust his hand away, but her hood had already fallen, and he could clearly see her face while she could still see almost nothing of his.
She felt a great resentment rising within her. He hadn’t been thrown to the mud. His cloak remained in good condition—the hood pulled low over his forehead.
“Don’t touch me,” she warned him.
“I didn’t touch you. Merely your garment.”
“Don’t do so again. I warn you, men could well die for less.”
“Really?” He was casually intrigued, and it seemed that he had all the time in the world.
She did not.
Her patience began to wane. “You must take heed with your every liberty. I do give you fair warning that I am a lady of this land, and if you serve me well, you will prosper, and if you cause me harm, you will die.”
He lifted a hand suddenly, indicating the boat.
Relieved that he at last seemed to understand her position and situation—and his possible gain from it—she quickly collected her fallen knife from the ground and scampered in.
She then crawled to the aft of the small vessel, leaving him the center-seat plank so that he could row the boat with the oars in the locks there.
He pushed the boat from the shore and stepped into it as it shot from the bank.
With balance and ease he came forward into the center of the small vessel, took a position in the center seat, and picked up the oars.
One swift surge with the oars on his part and they were all but flying across the water.
She would move far more quickly with him rowing than she could have possibly prayed to move on her own power.
But though she wanted to feel relief, she remained disturbed. She felt him watching her beneath the shadow of his hood. They were out upon the water when he spoke to her again, his voice rich, deep, husky—and menacing.
“A lady, eh?”
“Row, and mind your business,” she said.
“A lady, alone, in the night. When there might well be cutthroats and thieves about, rapists, plunderers, ravagers—simple opportunists?”
Was he threatening her? Yes, fool, most apparently! she warned herself.
“As you know, I carry a dagger on me, a gift from a Viking friend. It is sharper than any sword you can imagine, and the Viking taught me to use it quite well.”
“Aye, so I saw.”
“You took me by surprise; it will not happen again. If you’ve any intent to harm me, you should truly rethink your designs,” she informed him. She was careful to keep her voice firm and level despite the fear rising within her.
He didn’t respond to her warning, but continued to ponder her situation.
“A lady at night, alone on the river, demanding services—and threatening those she commands to serve her. There can be but one explanation to such a situation, so it appears to me. Tell me, my lady, just whom do you seek so desperately to escape?” he demanded.
“I should give you an answer to such a question—so you can demand a ransom?” Mellyora inquired. “I’ve nothing to tell you. Row. I’ll pay you in silver coins, in gold.”
“So you’ve told me. But I have you now, at my mercy, one might say.”
Mellyora stared at him, determined not to show a flicker of fear.
“I swear,” she said quietly, “alive and in one piece, I can make you far richer than you could make yourself by causing harm to me. Touch me, harm me in any way, and if I do not cut your heart out here and now, you will, I promise, die a tortured death. You will writhe in pure agony—pierced, bludgeoned, bloodied, and burned—before your body is hacked to pieces and fed to the crows.”
“You are both imperious and bloodthirsty,” he replied.
“You wretched bastard! How dare you sit there and criticize me—”
“You’re quite certain of your power. Which makes me think that you are running from none other than the king himself.” He leaned forward. “Why?”
Mellyora gritted down hard on her teeth, trying to control both her temper and the trembling that had seized her. Aye, she carried a knife in a sheath at her ankle. And aye, she’d been schooled well in the use of weapons.
But training and fact were two different situations, as she was now discovering.
When he’d pinned her on the riverbank, she hadn’t had a prayer of reaching her knife.
And if he truly threatened her now, what would happen?
Could she draw her knife out and injure him severely enough to keep him from slaying her in return?
Part of winning in battle was knowing when to fight, when to feint, when, even, to negotiate.
“What is this to you?” she asked, not wanting to risk a physical battle. “I can pay you very well—there’s no need to ask for any ransom. You’ll receive money, and there’s the end of it. What more do you need to know?”
Beneath the encompassing wool of his cloak, she thought that his great shoulders shrugged. “Whimsy, I suppose. I’m curious, quite intrigued. And I do well enough, you see. I am not in great need of your money.”
She sighed. “Then let this be inspiration for helping me quietly now to reach my destination. I could, truthfully, have you arrested and possibly hanged or otherwise executed for accosting me as you did on the riverbank.”
“How strange. It seems to me you want nothing to do with the law of the land.”