Chapter Thirty-Three #4
“Where does your mother reside?” she asked, fanning her face.
“At Ripley,” he said. “Lord Ingilsby was kind enough to provide for her. She does a good deal of sewing and other services for Lady Ingilsby.”
Remington fell silent, thinking of plain Lady Ingilsby.
She couldn’t help but remember when Alex Ingilsby had pleaded with her to run away with him, declaring his affection for her.
It had been so hard for him to admit his feelings, as he was shy and somewhat reserved, and she had been as kind as she could when she declined his offer. He was such a tremendously nice man.
“Lord Ingilsby traveled to London to testify on my behalf for the annulment hearing, you know,” she said softly. “I was told he was a most powerful witness.”
“He was,” Hubert concurred. “I accompanied him and he was most passionate, which I found surprising. He is usually a quiet man.”
Remington did not say anymore, afraid of where the conversation would lead.
She was married to one man and the lover of another.
If Hubert discovered that still another man had declared his want for her, she would appear as nothing more than a whore.
She did not want him to think less of Gaston because he loved a whore.
Yet he already knew she had bore Gaston twins, and that she had been committing adultery with him for a year.
Still, his manner and words indicated nothing but the highest respect for the man.
If he did not greatly regard Gaston, then he would not be risking his life to save his lover from her legal husband.
It never occurred to her that he would think less of her for the life she had chosen. She was simply worried that he would perceive Gaston differently. And with the humiliation the man had suffered through the hands of his wife and former king, she would not allow that to happen.
They rode quietly for a short while. As they passed Wakefield and drew closer to Leeds, activity on the road increased.
Remington eyed the peasants and travelers on the road suspiciously, as if she expected every one of them to seek out her husband and tell him exactly where she was.
But other than a glance or two, no one seemed to show any interest in her or the knight at all.
They skirted Leeds and Hubert spurred his destrier into a jogging trot. The great bouncy gait made Remington burp very unladylike and she was embarrassed, hoping he would either slow or speed up the pace. Much more of the jostling and she was sure she would bounce right off.
Hubert took them off the main route and onto a smaller, less traveled road. Whereas the main course dipped and curved into the towns it serviced, the less-worn road plowed straight and true north. Ripley wasn’t far off.
The afternoon faded. Remington felt boneless, weary and weak as she lay against Hubert’s broad chest. His armor was hard and cold, but it comforted her. It reminded her of Gaston.
Her heart leapt into her throat at the thought of him. She knew he was pursuing her, but her heart ached when she realized he knew nothing of her fate. The panic and the pain he was surely feeling brought tears to her eyes. How she wished she could comfort him, convince him she was sound and whole.
Her arms pained to hold him, and her lips quivered to kiss him. God, how she hurt for him.
Tears came but she dashed them away discreetly, hoping Hubert would not sense her sadness. She had no right to be sad; after all, he had saved her from certain humiliation and death. She tried to steady herself, to think ahead to Ripley, and to Gaston.
Hubert heard her sniffling, sympathy for her situation squeezing at him. He patted her arm gently.
“No need for tears, my lady. We shall soon be safe at Ripley.”
She nodded, drying at her eyes. “I know that. Forgive me for being foolish, Hugh,” she turned to look at him, forcing her face to brighten. “I have thought of a way to repay you for your sacrifice. I swear to you that I will name my next male child Hubert, if indeed I have another child.”
He smiled weakly. “No need, my lady. A simple thanks will be quite sufficient.”
Her smiled faded, sincerity filling her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded vaguely, tearing his eyes away from her consuming gaze. It was not difficult to see why Sir Gaston was so deeply in love with her.
They were riding through a light bank of trees and Remington heard the rushing of water not far off. Thinking it to be a delightful place to stop, if just for a moment, she turned to Hubert.
But her words died in her throat. Suddenly, Hubert was hit from behind so forcefully that both he and Remington went pitching off his destrier.
Dazed, Remington struggled to her knees only to hear a piercing hoot that made her hair stand on end. Panicked, she fought to gain her footing just as she heard a sword unsheathe behind her.
Hubert was on his feet, disoriented and shaken, but otherwise unharmed. He started to yell at Remington, but was cut off as two men charged him from the trees, barbarians from the way they were dressed. As the two rushed him, another man closed in on Remington.
She saw him coming, big and hairy and unkempt. With a scream, she bolted for the destrier, hoping to find a weapon strapped to the saddle.
The horse, however, saw her charging for him and began to snort and dance, preparing to fight.
Fortunately, Remington looked up from her panic and saw the animal’s agitated state.
Thinking quickly, she continued to dash and wave her arms, working the horse into a frenzy.
Praying she was fast enough, she veered sharply from the animal just as he started to charge.
The horse did not care who he injured. The big, hairy accoster was confronted by a very angry warhorse that proceeded to bite his arm nearly in half. Screaming and howling, the man stumbled back the way he came.
But the reprieve was short lived. There was another man ready to take his place, barreling toward Remington like a runaway wagon.
Over to her left, Hubert had dispatched one man and was struggling with the other.
He was quick and efficient, and the unintelligent bandits were no match for him.
Two dead men lay at his feet as Remington rushed toward him for protection.
The man rushing toward Remington had a weapon in his hand, a thick broadsword, tarnished and dirty. Just as Remington ducked behind Hubert, the man was upon the knight and the sound of metal against metal clanged loudly in the still summer air.
Remington stood back, panting loudly with fright as Hubert engaged the tall, youngish man. Her hands clutched at her throat in fear, cringing every time the alloy swords came together.
The fight was ferocious and bitter. Hubert fought extremely well against the man, who seemed as if he intended to chop his quarry to death. His strokes were jerky, harsh, and unskilled, but there was a great deal of power behind them.
Suddenly there were hands grabbing her from behind and she let out a whoop of shock and terror. Someone had her around the waist, pulling her up off the ground and breaking for the nearest thicket.
Remington screamed and fought, trying to kick and punch, battling for her very life. It proved to be difficult, however, for her molester held her quite easily and provided her with no opportunity to land a good blow. Her balled fists were meeting with air.
Another man came up beside her, grabbing her by the hair and the man who fisted her hair so savagely leaned closed to her, telling her in no uncertain terms what he planned to do with her.
Horrified and sickened, Remington began to bellow at the top of her lungs, far less screaming and far more blatant anger.
The men who held her merely laughed. The one who carried her tightened his grip as the other one ran his dirty hands up her bodice, fondling her tender breasts. Remington lashed out, aiming for his groin, but being rewarded with a sharp crack to her skull.
Stars danced before her eyes and night was beginning to fall, but she fought it. She had to. She refused to die at the hands of rapists.
She stopped yelling for Hubert, knowing in her heart he must have met with the cold blade of his opponent. Her heart ached for the brave man, and for herself as well. Why, God, did you save me from Guy, only to meet my end out here in the wilderness? Gaston will never find me now.
The man with his hand on her breast suddenly grunted. His eyes bugged, and blood dribbled from his mouth. Remington’s eyes widened as he fell away from her, dripping blood on her ecru-colored dress. She glanced up to see Hubert descending, his sword arcing a blinding streak.
She cried out as his sword came down inches from her shoulder and she felt the hands that held her open.
She did not hesitate; she was free and she leapt clear of the fight, tripping over the man who had so recently touched her breasts.
As she struggled over his body in her hysteria, one glance at the corpse showed a rugged dirk protruding from his back.
She fled, although she knew not where she was going. Only that she had to run, to escape the ambush. She was positive there were more bandits rushing forward to capture her, to rape and ravish her. She had to reach safety, wherever it may be.
Panic clouded her mind as she ran, skirts hiked up to her knees. Just as she reached the perimeters of the trees, a shout came from behind her. Someone was calling her name.
“Remington!”
She was panicked, as a hunted animal. There was no earthly way she was going to stop; surely it was a trick. Heart pounding, she ran even faster for the shelter of the trees.
“Remingtooooonnnn!”
A shadow of sensibility filtered into her hysteric mind. The roar sounded sincere, somehow… almost gentle, if that were possible. And the tone was thoroughly pleading. Although she did not want to, she stumbled to an unsteady halt and turned to the source of the shout.
Hubert was walking toward her, covered with gore. She couldn’t see his face through the lowered visor until he lifted it with shaking fingers. His gray eyes were wide with excitement and fear.
“All is well, honey,” he said gently. “They are all dead.”
She couldn’t reply for the moment, still panic-stricken. He closed in on her, sheathing his sword wearily.
“Let me see your head,” he said, his voice a husky whisper.
She had not realized that her head was aching terribly. Suddenly, the pain hit her full bore and she whimpered, her panic fading. Her whole body began to shake.
“Oh, my God,” her face crumpled, racking sobs spilling forth.
He grabbed her head with his great mailed gloves, inspecting the split scalp directly above her right ear.
“All is well, my lady,” he whispered again. “You are safe. I killed them all.”
She heard him, still terrified out of her mind.
Satisfied the wound to her head wasn’t severe, Hubert tried to lead her away but she couldn’t seem to walk.
In fact, they both seemed to be shaking a great deal, almost too hard to function.
But Hubert was desperate to remove her from the area, away from the memories of horror.
Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her back to his horse.
Remington continued to cry even as he mounted behind her and spurred the charger onto the road. Behind them, four dead men littered the quiet countryside, bright red blood staining the sweet green grass.
Even after Remington’s sobs died and she fell into an exhausted sleep, Hubert remained deeply shaken.
His good deed had almost turned deadly for both of them, and he would have never forgiven himself if tragedy had befallen the lady.
He could still hear her shouts and her tears, and the memory cut him to the bone.
How fortunate he had not been overwhelmingly outnumbered.
It made him ill to think of what might have happened if there had been but a few more outlaws, all intent on killing him and stealing his ward.
Although bandits were quite common to the roads of England, he was still unnerved by the incident.
The urge to reach Ripley was greater than before. Spurring his steed into a canter, his grip on Remington tightened.