“Tell me your name,” Malcolm demanded, the edge of his sword tight beneath the leader’s throat.
“I am Caradoc of Ravenwood and I claim right to the baron’s daughter.”
The little dove? “Is she your wife?”
“Nay, Philip had agreed on a match between us.”
“Philip is bound for the king’s court, as will you be.”
Even in the darkness, Ravenwood paled. “My intent was to capture the woman, Elin.”
“Then you know of Evenbough’s flight?”
“We tracked him.”
Tight with fear, that voice. Ravenwood’s body felt tense. Not with the anticipated bunch of muscles ready for a fight, but with true terror. This was no warrior. This was a man without courage.
“Pray,” Ravenwood begged, “do not kill me.”
Malcolm’s sword hovered while he decided his course. “Bid your men to lie facedown, arms spread. We will take them as prisoners.”
“Why? We want only the woman. She’s a maiden, an innocent.”
“A woman has no innocence.” Malcolm pressed the edge of his blade to Ravenwood’s throat until he drew blood. “’Tis not my place to judge your intentions or the girl’s. Like you, her future will be determined by the king.”
“Then you are the greater fool, Malcolm the Fierce.” Ravenwood’s eyes glittered in the way of men who cannot win by their battle skills, but by deceit and manipulation. “I am a favored nephew of the king. He will have your head, if I do not have it first.”
“You are the fool, Ravenwood. Do not threaten one who has spared your life. Else you may not have the same fate when we meet next.”
“You are not a lord, sirrah, but a hired man of the king’s. A barbarian sired you, and a barbarian you will always be. I know your ilk, le Farouche, and I spit on it.”
“You are a brave man with words, but you mistake my sensibilities. I know I am like my father, a killer to the bone. And knowing this should frighten you.” Malcolm tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. “Do my bidding while I am still of a mind to spare your life.”
“Kill me and earn the king’s disfavor.” Ravenwood laughed with the cocky ease of a lord’s spoiled son, born to a life of uselessness.
“I do not fear the king’s disfavor.” Malcolm tossed the traitor to the ground, pressed a foot to the small of his back to pin him there, and eased the sharp point of his sword into the vulnerable spot between his hauberk and the back of his helm.
“Lie on the ground or your lord will be run through,” he commanded the others.
The half-dozen remaining knights eased themselves to the bloodstained earth, wary and uncertain of their fate.
“Bind them. We’ll have more prisoners for Edward’s dungeon.” Malcolm knelt with some satisfaction to tie Caradoc of Ravenwood’s hands behind his back. “Pray your uncle looks upon you with favor, for being found trying to rescue a traitor is a damning act.”
“I merely wanted the shrew.” Caradoc’s words were muffled from the dirt in his mouth. “I will have your head, le Farouche, one way or another.”
“You are not warrior enough to win it in a fight.” Malcolm did not value his head overmuch. “I will gag you as well. I grow tired of your threats.”
Malcolm stood careful watch while Caradoc of Ravenwood and his bound men were chained to trees like dogs.
“You did not take his head,” Giles observed. “You have taken far more from those who have insulted you less.”
“He is a relative of the king and a powerful man.”
“You are afraid?” Giles’s astonished whisper carried in the still night air.
“Nay, but wary. I never turn my back on a serpent.” He’d seen the contrivances of men like Caradoc and had recognized in his manner a man who took triumph in hurting others. “Is Hugh dead?”
“Mortally wounded.” Giles gestured toward the road, where their men had gathered. “We lost no others.”
“And the women?”
“Escaped during the fray. Shall I track them?”
“The king will be displeased if we do not.” His thoughts turning to the wounded man, Malcolm raced across uneven ground toward the fallen knight. Men parted to allow room at Hugh’s side. Silence and sorrow scented the air.
Grief tore at Malcolm’s heart as he knelt, knowing he was helpless to repair rent flesh and shattered bone. Someone had removed Hugh’s helm and had bathed his sweaty face. Faint starlight showed the deathly pallor tainting pale skin. Hugh would die, and Malcolm seethed with anger at his powerlessness to save him.
“We have not long to wait,” Lulach whispered, so Hugh would not hear.
“Then we wait,” Malcolm decided. He would let the young man, once so eager to serve beneath him, die in peace.
Hugh’s fingers gripped his. “I fear I have done you shame. I am not the knight I prayed to be.”
“Fear not, Hugh. You fought like a true warrior. I am proud of you.”
“’Tis all I ever asked.” Hugh let out a rasping breath, and Malcolm closed his eyes, unwilling to watch another fine man die.
Such was a knight’s life, easily spent, easily expended, lost on a dark road for no reason. The injustice of it beat at him like a wielded spike, but there was naught Malcolm could do to change the way of the world or turn back the tide of death.
He had survived and was left to mourn—as always—those who did not.
“The young knight has fallen,” Alma whispered as they galloped down the dark lane. “We must help him.”
“He trussed me up like a pig. I’ll not risk my freedom and welfare for any man.” Elin thought of the dark, fierce knight and how he’d taunted her. And then of the younger knight, who had shown kindness toward Alma. “I shall not return.”
Yet she slowed the mare from a gallop to a trot. Then she halted the animal entirely. What was her freedom worth? If the king wanted her at his court, then nothing would spare her. That little voice inside her head had been smiting her since she’d fled Hugh’s watchful eye.
“’Tis an unwise decision,” she informed Alma.
“But a noble course.”
“Fie on nobility! The true reason I turn this palfrey around is so that I might sleep at night. I’ll not have some man’s death on my conscience!” Truly, she was no soft-hearted female. She could wield a sword as well as her brother and run twice as far. And a pox on anyone who thought her weak and sentimental.
They had escaped the moment Hugh had dropped hold of their reins to raise his sword in battle. Whoever challenged the king’s knights could only mean more complications. ’Twas rumored few could outfight Malcolm the Fierce. Alma had refused to flee, but Elin could taste freedom. She did not trust even the king’s knight to be true.
So she’d caught hold of the old woman’s reins and galloped off into the night, unnoticed as the clash of steel and the roaring cries from bloodthirsty men rang in her ears. Only a fool would return.
Now, when she reached the last bend in the road, silence met her. Dark shadows revealed the forms of men kneeling in the way, forming a ring around a death-still body.
Unnoticed, Elin dismounted. Her limbs quaked with the act of walking back into the hands of her captors, whether they took her in good faith or bad, yet