The hostage bride b 1, p.11
The Hostage Bride b-1, page 11
part #1 of Brides Series
Portia pursed her lips, trying to make sense of this. “You mean you can’t remember?”
Olivia nodded. “I just have this t-terrible dread when I think of him.”
“Nasty,” Portia muttered with feeling. “I’ve met a few men who’ve made me feel like that. Nasty, slimy creatures.”
“Yes!” Olivia sat up straight, bringing her body forward again. “Exactly. He’s a nasty, slimy snake.” Then she hunched over again and said in a near whisper, “I won’t b-be able to bear it if he c-comes.”
“But I’ll be here,” Portia said bracingly. “I’ve learned a trick or two when it comes to dealing with the snakes of this world.”
Olivia managed a watery smile. “I c-can’t imagine how I ever lived before you came, Portia. I’ve never had a friend b-before.”
“Well, you have one now,” Portia said with a grin. She slipped off the seat and stepped back into the chamber, which seemed like an ice box after the heat of the inglenook. “Come on,” she suggested impulsively, “Let’s go skating. The sun’s shining. The ducks’ll be hungry and it’s far too beautiful to be cooped up inside.”
Olivia’s throat felt hoarse and scratchy as if she’d been screaming at the top of her lungs for the last half hour, but the nameless dread was receding. Maybe Brian wouldn’t come after all. Her father had thought it a possibility. Maybe he wouldn’t come. Wouldn’t come, wouldn’t come, wouldn’t come. She repeated it to herself like a mantra until the words filled her head and banished the last tendrils of fear.
“We’d best creep out in c-case we meet Diana,” she said. “She’s in such a foul mood, she’s b-bound to think up something horrible for me to do this morning if she catches me.”
“And if you lend me a cloak, then I won’t have to go and fetch my own and risk bumping into Janet.” Portia went to the door and opened it a crack, peering out with an exaggerated conspiratorial air that made Olivia chuckle despite herself.
“Have this one.” Olivia unhooked her cloak from the back of the door. “I’ll wear my b-best one.” She fetched it from the armoire and clasped it at her neck; her hands were now perfectly steady when she drew on her gloves.
“Ready?” Portia drew up the hood of her cloak.. Olivia nodded.
They hurried along the passage, took the bridge to the battlements, and climbed down a night of stone stairs that took them safely into the outer ward, where neither Diana nor Janet Beckton would be likely to venture.
The outer ward was busy, troops hurrying between the stables, the armorer, the blacksmith, the farrier. A wagon full of supplies was being unloaded outside the granary, another with kegs of ale and barrels of wine stood before the ramp leading down to the cellars.
“Why is my father b-bringing in so many supplies?” Olivia asked.
“Probably preparing for a siege,” Portia replied as they entered the stables to pick up their skates and stuff their pockets with grain for the ice-bound ducks on the moat. “There’s not much fighting in dead of winter, but once spring comes, the fun really will begin. And Castle Granville is such a powerful fortress, and your father has raised such a large militia, it might well suit the king’s men to besiege it… keep your father and his army out of the fighting.”
“Oh.” Olivia absorbed this. She hadn’t really come to terms with the idea of the war, let alone its reality. It didn’t really touch her in the family security of the donjon, except that she was forbidden to leave the castle to ride or go hawking, or even visit the village of Granville that nestled at the base of the hill. But the weather had been so foul, she hadn’t really noticed the restrictions too much. Come spring, she would.
She hurried after Portia onto the drawbridge, her bone skates clutched beneath her arm. Skating on the moat had become perforce their favorite outdoor activity, since anything else outside the battlements was forbidden.
Portia was already halfway down to the moat, climbing down the iron ladder from the drawbridge. She sat on the ice to strap on her skates, then rose easily, much more surefooted now than she had been a short while ago.
She skated into the middle of the moat while Olivia fastened her own blades, and tried an experimental twirl, her eyes seeking and finding the darker line in the stone beneath the drawbridge that indicated the secret door. Maybe tonight, if there was no delivery, she would see if she could open it from the outside. It must connect with some passage within the walls, but her chances of finding that from within the warren of the battlements were not good. There must be a catch or lever in the stone… unless, of course, it couldn’t be opened from the moat…
“There they are. Just the same as yesterday.” George pointed down to the moat. The eyes of his two dark-cloaked companions followed his finger. They were concealed in a thicket of bushes on a small knoll across from the drawbridge, and they were all aware of how dangerous was their position, a few hundred yards from Castle Granville, on a bright sunny morning.
“But just ‘ow are we to pluck the lassie off the ice under the eyes of them there watchtowers?” mused a short, thickset man with a grizzled beard.
“Watch and see, Titus,” George instructed with something approaching a grin. “If they do like yesterday, they’ll be skatin‘ aroun’ t‘ moat to feed the ducks on the island. An’ on t’other side of the little island they’ll be out of sight of the towers fer a few minutes. We can lift ‘er off the ice there easy as pie.”
“Which one’s ours?”
“Lassie in t‘ blue cloak. Master watched ’em on the moat when ‘e went in to the feast… Ah, there they go! Let’s get on wi’ it now.” George was impatient. Every minute they hung around put them in danger of a noose on the battlements of Castle Granville.
The three Decatur men moved stealthily forward, keeping within the concealment of the bushes, following the skaters as they circled the moat.
The island on the far side of the castle was a small, treestrewn rock sticking up out of the ice. Ducks gathered on the edge, looking mournfully at the frozen surface of the water. When the skaters came into view, they launched themselves skittering onto the ice, their raucous squawking filling the air.
George and his men were close to the edge of the moat now, in the lee of the island. The noise of the ducks would drown any sound of their approach, and, as George had noted, at this point they were shielded by the island from the castle sentries.
The two girls were surrounded by ducks as they scattered grain on the ice. They had their backs to the shore, and when the three men darted, crouched low and utterly silent, across the moat, Portia and Olivia were aware of nothing but the excited waterfowl.
Until something alerted Portia, some atavistic warning of danger. She whirled around just as the thick blanket fell over her head, plunging her into a suffocating darkness, tangling her limbs, throwing her off balance, so she would have fallen had she not been grabbed up off the ice, the blanket wrapped securely around her, trapping her in a tight cocoon. She heard Olivia’s scream somewhere outside the stifling blackness, and then she was aware only of being carried at a loping run.
She fought but it was impossible to break free of her swaddling bands. She tried to shout but her mouth became full of lint and hair from the blanket. A hand grasped her head and forced her face into the chest of her abductor. Her nose and mouth were instantly pressed against something hard and unyielding, and she could barely breathe.
She could hear branches cracking, undergrowth crashing beneath booted feet, then someone else took her as if she were a well-wrapped parcel. The skates were unstrapped from her boots as she was held aloft, then she was lifted high in the air and passed over yet again, cradled tightly, turned once more against the iron-hard chest. The horse beneath her leaped forward and the arms holding her tightened, cushioning her against the violent pace of the galloping steed.
Her head was pounding as she tried to grab for air, tried with her tongue to get rid of the sticky fibers filling her mouth, tried to fight down the panic of complete incomprehension. What was happening was unbelievable. There was no rhyme or reason for such an abduction. No one bore her any ill will. She had neither friends nor enemies in this part of the world outside the walls of Castle Granville.
And she was going to faint. Her head swam, her heart raced, cold sweat pricked her skin. And then, mercifully, her head was turned away from the chest, the stifling blanket was loosened and a cold gush of air fanned her face.
She gasped eagerly, turning her face up to the sky that raced by as the horse galloped flat out across the hillside. She could hear other hoofbeats, but she was held in such a way that she could only look upward at the sky.
“Take it easy, lassie,” a gruff voice said from above her. “We’ve a long ride ahead an‘ if ye’ll promise to sit still an’ keep quiet, I’ll let ye sit up a bit.”
Portia was not at all sure she was prepared to keep any promises she made in this situation, but she made a gesture with her captured head that could have been interpreted as agreement. The half nod was instantly rewarded by a merciful change in position. She was hitched up until she was half sitting on the saddle in front of her captor. Her arms and legs were still trapped in the blanket and she had to rely on the man to hold her securely on the horse, but at least her head was free and she could see.
Her abductor was a burly man with a red face and a cheerful eye that struck Portia as insultingly incongruous in the circumstances. His cloak blew back in the breeze and she saw what had been so hard against her face. He wore a steel breastplate -serious armor for an abduction.
Two men rode alongside them, their horses matching the breakneck speed of her captor’s. They too wore breastplates beneath their dark cloaks, and they kept their eyes on the path ahead, not once glancing with even mild curiosity in her direction.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Never ye mind, lass,” her captor said comfortably.
“But I do mind! Of course I mind!” she protested, more astonished than indignant at such a ridiculous instruction. “How could I not mind being abducted like this?”
“Settle down,” he advised in the same friendly tone. “It’s not my place to say anythin‘, so if ye want to ride comfortably, ye’d do best to keep a still tongue in yer ’ead an‘ enjoy the scenery.”
Portia’s jaw dropped and she was momentarily silenced. Then recovering herself again, she demanded, “You could at least free my hands so that I can get this mucky stuff out of my mouth.”
“And what stuff would that be?” he inquired curiously.
“From that filthy blanket,” Portia almost spat.
“ ‘Old on.” He rummaged in his pocket and produced a large kerchief. “ ’Ere, stick out yer tongue, lass.”
“Let me do it myself!”
He shrugged and made to replace the kerchief, and Portia thought better of her refusal, sticking out her tongue with bad grace. But it was a relief to have the bits of fiber and lint removed and even more so when he held a water bottle to her lips.
After that, there seemed little point in further conversation, so she sat apparently reconciled, but her mind raced and her eyes darted from side to side, watching for an opportunity, however slight, to escape. Even if her limbs were free, it would be suicide to jump down at this speed, but something might happen.
Something did. The horse veered abruptly to avoid a curled hedgehog in its path and stumbled sideways into a ditch concealed by grassy undergrowth. His rider drew back on the reins, trying to steady the animal to help him recover his balance. His grip on Portia was momentarily loosened, and instantly she kicked out with her trapped legs joined together like a mermaid’s tail and twisted out of his grasp, falling hard to the ground just clear of the horse’s flailing hooves.
“Hey! Grab ‘er!” her captor bellowed to his companions, who’d reined in their own animals when the other had stumbled.
Portia scrambled to her feet, kicking off the blanket, and ran, heading instinctively for a tangle of bushes where she might find concealment. Shouts filled her ears, shattering the silence on the deserted hillside, but she closed her mind to the thought of pursuit and concentrated on reaching her goal. Her heart hammered in her ears and the frigid air pierced her aching lungs.
She plunged into the middle of the bushes and realized her mistake. Thorny branches whipped out at her, snagging her cloak, tearing at her exposed face. She covered her face with her gloved hands and fought to push her way through. But the thornbushes grew denser and with a sinking heart she realized she was going to be trapped in this vicious impenetrable thicket. Her gloves and cloak were ripped to shreds, her face was bleeding, her hair an impossible tangle where bits of lint and fluff mingled with twigs and dead leaves.
She could hear the men pounding behind her, slashing at the thorns with their swords. Her own small knife, nestled as always in her boot, was too puny to cut through the wicked thorny branches, but she had it in her hand when she was finally forced to stop and turn at bay.
The men crashed through the underbrush, cursing as they slashed at the branches. “God’s bowels!” George exclaimed. “Will ye look at that. The lassie ‘as a knife. Give it ’ere, lass.” He extended his hand. “It won’t do no good against three of us.”
Hemmed in by the thornbushes, facing three men with swords and breastplates, Portia was lost and she knew it. She bent and slipped the knife back into her boot, then shrugged, turning her palms upward in a gesture of resignation.
“Lord love us, but look what ye’ve gone an‘ done to yerself,” George said. “All bleedin’ an‘ scratched. Come on, then.” He stepped up to her, lowered his shoulder and tossed her unceremoniously over his back.
Portia let out a howl of indignation and pummeled his back with her fists but he took not a blind bit of notice, merely strode phlegmatically out of the thicket behind his two companions who cleared the way with their swords.
“That was right foolish of ye, lass,” he declared when they reached the horses, now quietly cropping the grass in the ditch. “Now y’are goin‘ to be uncomfortable, and I’m sorry fer it, but it can’t be ’elped.”
Portia thought to protest, to plead, to promise even, but pride kept her tongue still as she was swaddled securely once again in the blanket. But this time they tied strips of canvas webbing over the blanket around her ankles, her waist, and over her arms, so she was trussed like a goose for the market. They pulled up the hood of her cloak and fastened it tightly over her head, but at least her mouth and nose were left free.
The rest of the ride was interminable. Portia was sitting sideways on the saddle, held securely against the hard, burly frame of the man they called George. She was miserably uncomfortable because her wrappings made it impossible to twitch a muscle, to adjust her position, to scratch the itch that developed on her calf and rapidly spread all over her body in a maddening prickle.
The three men spoke occasionally to each other, but nothing that was said gave Portia a clue as to where they were going, let alone why she’d been kidnapped. The landscape was desolate, harsh bare heath giving way to barren hills. There were sheep and a few hardy fell ponies, but no sign of human habitation, not even a stone crofter’s cottage.
Finally her manifold discomforts gelled into one wretched fact. Her bladder was bursting and the horse’s steady canter did nothing to take her mind off the situation. “I need to stop,” she said finally. “I need to go behind a bush.”
“Bless ye, lass, we’ll be there soon enough,” George said in his infuriatingly friendly tone. “See the fires up ahead?” He gestured with his whip.
Portia swiveled her head. It was late afternoon now, and still sunny, but she could see the smoke of a fire rising in the clear air from the top of the hill they were presently climbing. “That’s where we’re going?”
“Aye.”
“I don’t think I can wait,” she said deliberately.
He glanced down at her white set face. “Yes ye can, lass.” He put spur to his horse and the animal bounded forward, tired though it was, for the last uphill effort in the direction of stable and oats.
Portia gritted her teeth and forced herself to think of anything but her need for relief. She looked around, searching for some clue as to their whereabouts. The smell of the fire grew stronger, and at last they breasted the top of the hill and she saw a small sentry post, with a lone guard, pike and musket in hand, standing at watch.
He raised a hand in cheerful greeting. “All well, George?”
“Aye, Tim.” George acknowledged the wave. If the sentry had been a less senior member of the band, or if Rufus or Will had been there, he would have insisted on giving the password, but in broad cloudless daylight, when a man could see for miles around, it seemed foolish.
“Is the master below?”
“Aye. Don’t think ‘e’s ridden out today.”
“See ye in the mess fer a jar later, shall us?”
“Aye. I’m off in ‘alf an hour.”
They rode down the other side of the hill, but Portia was now so desperate for the privy that she had only a vague impression of a cluster of buildings along a riverbank. She noticed that the men they passed wore soldiers’ buff leather jerkins, and their stride was closer to a march than a walk. The buildings looked more like military structures than the cozy cottages of a hamlet, but she identified a blacksmith’s, a granary, and a fairly substantial building with an ale bench outside. The mess presumably. Beyond that, she registered very little except an atmosphere of brisk purpose.
George drew rein outside a house at the far end of the village, set a little apart from the rest. He swung down. Reaching up to the saddle, he neatly tipped Portia’s wrapped body forward over his shoulder. She bit her lip hard as her bladder was pressed against his shoulder.
The front door opened as he reached it, and he stepped over the lintel with his burden and carefully placed her full length on the floor inside.
“God’s bones, George, was it necessary to bundle her up like Cleopatra in the carpet?”
