Chapter 14 #3
The path was strangely empty, Damien thought as he tried to make his way by faded memory and the faint light of the moon.
The stables and outbuildings at Odiham were set at the furthest edges of the retaining wall, thanks to the unusual, octagonal shape of the main keep, and Damien berated himself for not remembering this sooner so that he might have at least grabbed one of the hall torches on his way out here.
In truth, he’d never thought to find so few servants moving about. Then again, perhaps they were all occupied with duties inside, thanks to the opening celebration.
He would get there soon enough, though; he could see the flicker of light from the stables ahead in the gloom, and he could hear the soft nickering of horses.
That Reginald had not sought him out along the way did not bode well, however, for it likely meant his mount was even worse than he’d thought, and that Reginald had needed to remain by his—
A rustling sound behind Damien gave him a breath of warning, allowing him to tense an instant before something long and hard cracked across his back, up near his shoulders.
Whatever it was hurt like hell, and he realized that it would have caught him on the base of his skull had he not reacted with hard-won instinct to the whispering approach of the blow.
Twisting in the direction of his unseen assailant, Damien braced himself in a half crouch, wishing he had time to reach for his blade even as he tried to ready himself for the next strike.
He’d been hit with a jousting lance, apparently, and he saw it come swinging in at his head again, wielded by a short and stocky man.
As he ducked and rolled, Damien caught little more than a glimpse of red hair and glittering eyes in the wash of moonlight that broke from behind the clouds.
The blow missed him, but he collided with a second man, unseen before in the darkness.
Damien felt him though, by God, when the bastard’s fist cracked into his jaw as he tried to lurch to a standing position to face the two of them.
The strike sent Damien back to the dirt, filling his mouth with the metallic taste of blood and setting off a dull ringing in his ears.
He had no time to react, however, because at that moment a well-aimed kick drove deep into his belly from another direction, unleashing a wall of white-hot agony and stopping his breath on a choked grunt.
Damn, there were three of them.
As he rolled to his side, hunched over, that realization echoed dimly through the pain stunning his mind, while the blows began to rain down on him.
To his good fortune, in the space of time it took to drag a tortured breath into his lungs, something flared to life inside him.
The will to fight swelled, building to a fierce burning as it had when he’d been under the diabolical torments of his inquisitors—only this time, unlike then, he was restrained only by his own pain.
And that sure as hell wasn’t going to stop him.
With a growl of pure rage, Damien curled upward and swung out with his fists, catching one of his assailants in the chest and knocking him back at the same time that he drove his heel into a second one’s knee.
He heard the man’s strangled-sounding scream as the joint broke.
The man fell back, but before Damien could do aught else but suck in another much-needed breath, the other two dimly outlined attackers converged upon him.
With battle-honed instinct, he struck out at them, catching the lance and yanking it free just before it could find its mark against his body again.
Ah—a weapon at last.
They did not know it yet, but even three to one, the wretches had just evened the field. He used the lance against them with relish, jabbing and cracking it into the shadowy targets with the precision borne of countless training sessions and numerous skirmishes over the past decade.
But then, almost as suddenly as he had turned the tide of the brawl to his own favor, it was over.
He heard a muffled grunt, followed by a low call to retreat uttered by one of the men he fought.
The one whose knee he’d broken earlier seemed to have vanished, but both of the remaining assailants suddenly left off their attack.
He caught the edge of one of the men’s tunics as they turned to flee, wanting some answers about why they had set upon him.
But the cur broke free, leaving Damien with naught but a fistful of cloth and empty air for his efforts.
As if from afar, Damien heard the thud of a door and some scrambling sounds, as if someone was climbing over a wall or gate. And then all fell silent.
His breath rasped and his chest felt tight; in the aftermath of the fight, the wrath that had helped him keep going ebbed away, leaving naught but throbbing pain and the deep aching of the injuries he’d sustained.
He hurt, by God. In too many places to count.
Sinking to his knees with a stifled groan, Damien tried to pull together his muddled thoughts. He didn’t need a clear head to know that there was more to this attack than being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Hell, none of his assailants had even made the show of demanding his purse.
Just then, he looked down at the piece of cloth he still clutched in his hand; the clouds shifted again, letting the moonlight spill down and illuminating the edge of the garment he’d ripped when his assailant had first been attempting to flee. It was of gold-hued fabric, slashed with red.
Hugh’s colors.
Christ, the bastard was more underhanded, even, than Damien had thought.
He closed his eyes, taking even, panting breaths and reminding himself that any rage he allowed himself to feel now would be wasted.
Better to save it for when he could put it to useful purpose.
Against Hugh, for example, on the morrow.
Lifting one hand to his head, Damien winced when his fingertips encountered a gash above his brow.
That explained why he’d had to keep blinking in order to see what little he had during the brawl, though at the time he’d thought it was sweat that was obscuring his vision.
Spitting, he realized that the second cur’s blow to his jaw had filled his mouth with blood as well.
He bit off a curse. Yet as much as his head hurt, the rest of his body felt worse.
He’d need to wait an hour or so before he’d be able to assess the full extent of his injuries, but he knew with sickening certainty that he had at least one cracked rib.
That much was clear, based upon the jagged pain he felt trying to take in a breath deep enough to yell for one of his men to come out from the stables, which still loomed a hundred or more paces away—too far for any of them to have heard the scuffle.
He attempted to breathe in fully again, only to feel a nauseating, piercing sensation that stopped the effort short and made him see stars. Obviously, summoning help that way wasn’t going to work.
Nay, he would have to push himself to his feet again and walk the distance.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand, letting his own anger drive him on.
He wrapped one arm around his aching ribs and headed toward the stables.
Perhaps the attack against him had been in retaliation for the insults he had dealt Hugh in the hallway near the herb garden.
Or perhaps it was simply Hugh’s attempt to intimidate or disable him for the contest to come between them in the tournament tomorrow.
But he could not discount the possibility that this three-on-one beating had been a nasty ploy to keep him separated from Alissende long enough for Hugh to get to her, and it was that fear which gave him strength to go more quickly.
Aye, he would make it to the stables all right. He would find his men and send several of them ahead to his pavilion, knowing that they could reach it and Alissende far more swiftly than he could in his condition.
And then he would make Hugh pay.
By God, injured or not, on the morrow he would make Hugh de Valles, Lord Harwick, pay for the cowardly ambush he’d ordered this night.
And he would take pleasure in every moment of it.