Chapter Three
Creed knew they would never outrun her.
The best they could hope for was tracking her horse and the animal had left distinct hoof prints in the dirt where the horses had been tethered for the night.
Burle was a master tracker and had kept them on a steady path most of the morning.
Surprisingly, she had continued south. He had been positive that she would have turned for home.
But instead, she continued deep into English territory.
It did not make much sense. But, then again, nothing about the woman did.
The entire Prudhoe escort was mounted and following within minutes of the lady’s escape.
Ryton did not scold him, although Creed could tell by his brother’s expression that he was displeased.
He had, in fact, put Creed in charge of her to avoid this.
But she had escaped him. Stanton, in spite of being smacked in the skull by the lady, had fared better.
The more Ryton stewed about it as they rode south, the more irritated he became.
“You had time to talk to her,” he said to his brother. “Where do you think she will go?”
Creed shrugged his shoulders. “We spoke of trifling things. One thing I do not profess to do is read women’s minds.”
“You should have kept a better eye on her.”
Creed did not respond; he would not explain himself to his brother when Ryton already knew that Creed’s knightly skills were beyond question.
What happened was unexpected, yet in hindsight, Creed supposed he should not have left the lady standing alone with her horse.
Truth was he had not given it much thought until he caught a glimpse of the big golden horse leaping over a barrier with its dark haired mistress.
Then he’d just felt frustration. Frustration, with help from his brother’s remark that was now growing into anger.
Stanton cantered beside Creed on his big brown charger.
The young knight had seemed particularly concerned with the matter of the escapee; in fact, he’d seemed concerned for the lady the moment they had collected her from Wether Fair.
Were the man not married with a young child, one might have taken his concern for romantic interest. But Ryton knew, as did Creed, that it was just infatuation.
She was a pretty girl and he was naturally fascinated.
Stanton just did not have it in him to be devious or deceptive.
“Should we check the woods, Creed?” he asked, his visor flipped up and his angular face flushed. “Perhaps she has gone into hiding?”
Burle was up ahead, aboard his fat gray charger, riding on the side of the road and studying the ground. “Burle has her scent,” Creed told him. “We will wait for his opinion.”
“Perhaps you should have put someone else to guard her, Ryton,” Jory’s voice floated up from behind them, over the thunder of the hooves. “Your brother does not seem to have much luck with women.”
It was a deliberate dig, vengeance for the beating Creed had dealt him the night before. Jory had a loose mouth but was no good at backing up his assertions. Ryton did not bother turning around.
“Another word and I send you on to Prudhoe alone,” he said steadily. “After what you did last night to the lady, you are lucky that you are still in my corps. The baron will know about your actions towards the hostage, Jory. I have no use for degenerates such as you.”
Had anyone else said it, Jory would have snapped back. But Ryton was his commander and he wisely kept his mouth shut. But it did not prevent him from feeling as if, somehow, he had been the one who had been slighted.
Burle suddenly threw up a hand and everyone came to a halt. Creed, Ryton and the other knights rode up to him, watching the man point off to the east; there was an enormous meadow, as far as the eye could see, with snow-topped peaks in the distance. The land was lush and green from an early spring.
Burle got off his charger and following the hoof prints that veered off the road. “She went off into the meadow.”
All eyes moved to the landscape beyond. “There is virtually no cover,” Ryton said. “If she was still in the meadow, we would see her.”
Creed spurred his charcoal charger down the road for several yards, studying the soft brown earth.
“Here,” he pointed to the road as the charger did a nervous little dance. “She came back out here.”
Burle went over to where he was pointing, kneeling down as much as his armor would allow and studying the ground. “Aye,” he nodded. “She did indeed. It looks as if she has continued south.”
“Then south we ride,” Ryton lifted a fist to the column of men behind him.
Creed had already spurred his animal forward, cantering ahead of the troops, keeping his eyes alert for the big blond horse with the little lady upon it.
As time passed, he was coming to wonder if they would ever find her.
There was so much danger in the world, especially for a lone female.
He may have been foolish enough to have given her the opportunity to escape him, but he doubted she realized what she was getting herself into when she made the foolish decision to flee.
But one thing was for certain; either way, he was the one to blame. Christ, he felt stupid.
*
The knights were closing in. Bress was fast, but he was also weary.
Carington ended up heading back onto the road she had traveled, a straight and wide road that gave Bress plenty of room to pick up speed.
She thought she could outrun the knights and was frankly surprised they had followed her for as long and far as they had.
She had expected the drunken warriors to quickly tire of the chase.
But they had not. The panic she had been so adept at keeping at bay returned with a vengeance; Bress was tiring and his gait was slowing.
If the knights kept their pace, they would eventually catch her.
The sky was darkening with dusk as they pounded along the road north. The men behind her were slowly closing. In the distance was a heavy patch of forest and in her fright, Carington directed Bress for the trees. Perhaps she could lose her pursuers in the bramble.
She plowed into the foliage, hearing the shouts behind her.
The men were gaining ground. Bress was grunting and snorting as he raced through the trees.
Branches whipped back on Carington; one caught her across the neck and she put her fingers on the wound, drawing away bright red blood.
She was still directing the horse northward, paralleling the road, when suddenly the forest ended and she was in a meadow, disturbing a flock of pheasants that flew up into the air.
Bress startled, reared up, took a bad step and ended up falling over on her.
Twelve hundred pounds of horseflesh pushed Carington deep into the soft, moist earth.
Had the ground been hard, the fall would have most likely killed her.
But the earth was very soft and the horse’s weight did nothing more than shove her down into it.
By the time Bress rolled off of her, the knights were upon her.
“See here,” one of them shouted, practically falling off his charger and making haste towards her. “You should not have run, wench. Now you have hurt yourself.”
She was stunned but not hurt. Arms were reaching down to pull her up and she tried to yank away from them even in her shock.
“Let me go,” she hissed, struggling. “Take yer hands off me.”
Two of the knights had her by the arms. “By God’s Bloody Rood,” the same man who had yelled at her spoke. “She is Scots. No wonder she ran.”
The knight on her other arm shook her roughly. “What are you doing here, girl? Spying?”
The world was weaving and her ears were ringing, but it did not lessen her resolve to fight. “Let me go!” she shrieked.
The first knight yanked her hard enough to snap her head back. She ended up pressed against his chest, her small, voluptuous body wedged intimately against him.
“You are a spy, lass, admit it,” he muttered, spittle on his lips. “We know how to deal with spies.”
Her struggles increased to panicked proportions as she struggled to pull herself away from the English dog dripping spit on her shoulder. As she twisted and pulled, she suddenly noticed in her peripheral vision that Bress was still on the ground.
“Sweet Jesus!” she exclaimed softly, her panic for herself turning into panic for her horse. “Bress! He’s hurt!”
The knights would not let her go. A third knight stood beside Bress, eyeing the softly groaning horse critically.
“Broke his leg,” he said casually, hands on his hips. Then he looked to the fourth knight who had come to stand next to him. “Give me your sword so I can put this beast out of its misery.”
Carington began to weep loudly. “Nay,” she sobbed. “My sweet Bress. Let me see him. Oh, please, let me see him.”
The first knight ignored her plea, bending down to throw her over his shoulder.
He was a younger man with blond eyebrows, short of stature but evidently strong.
Carington fought and kicked him with every ounce of strength she possessed, trying to aim for his neck.
But he wore armor and the helm protected tender spots.
As he carried her back towards his horse, she caught a glimpse of Bress on the ground, lifting his head as if trying to see where his mistress was.
Sobs of grief overcame sobs of terror; she reached out as if to touch the horse, now laying crippled on the ground.
She could see a bloodied right rear leg, near the ankle, and the stiff appearance of something that did not look natural jutting out of his leg.
It was a bone, and she squeezed her eyes shut at the sight.
Weak with sorrow and agony, she still struggled with the knight who carried her back to his horse.
“Please,” she begged through her tears. “Please let me go to my horse. Please let me comfort him.”