Where was the farmer? His wife? Children? Not even a dog barked a warning that a mounted party approached on the road.
Merrick turned his head to look at the field—and his blood froze.
Ambush!
Not in the woods, as he’d feared. Here, where he thought they’d be safer. A force that easily matched his own was galloping out of the forest and down the ridge. With lances.
Lances that could pierce mail and take a man down with a single blow—and they had none.
In the next instant the lances were forgotten as he heard Constance’s warning cry.
Nothing else mattered but her. Not his own safety, or anyone else’s. Whether the attackers would merely take her prisoner or murder her, he neither knew nor cared. She was his wife, his beloved, and he would let no man harm a hair on her head.
He shouted for the master-at-arms, and as he did, he realized the men were already forming into battle lines, while a group of about twenty circled Constance and Lord Osgoode.
Thank God for Ranulf’s training!
He shouted at them to take his wife and Lord Osgoode to the monastery, no matter what else happened.
Raising his sword, his reins in his left hand, his shield raised, he roweled his horse to a gallop and led the charge. He swung his sword at the first lance he could, the blow shattering the tip. He recovered quickly enough to swing at the mounted man, but missed and nearly overset himself by leaning too far forward.
He regained his balance and with a sharp nudge of his knees, turned his destrier. Three of his mounted men had fallen, two of the attackers.
He quickly searched for Constance. He spotted Lord Osgoode and their guards, fighting with a will against a group of nearly the same number.
Where was Constance? Oh, God, where—? There! She’d broken out of the fighting group and was riding down the road, her scarf gone, her unbound hair and cloak streaming behind her.
“Fly, beloved, fly!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
Then his heart leapt into his throat as one of the attackers broke off from the group around Osgoode and rode after her.
Merrick recognized him at once. He’d seen him in tournaments, watched him practice, knew the way he sat his horse as well as he knew his own name.
“Judas!” Merrick screamed, the word torn from his heart as he spurred his horse forward. “Traitor!”
Death was too good for Henry.
Six other mounted men appeared in front of Merrick, two with maces, the rest with swords that flashed in the sun emerging from behind the clouds.
With an enraged bellow, Merrick charged the nearest man, swinging his sword like a madman, albeit one with incredibly good aim and years of training. His horse, excited by the battle, snapped and bit at anything that got in its way.
Merrick’s opponent was no novice, but even so, he was no match for a furious Merrick, either. The wrath seemed to fairly pour out of the lord of Tregellas and he fought with an almost supernatural power.
His enemy’s companions, seeing his difficulties, pressed closer. Merrick’s horse, enclosed, reared back, kicking. Merrick’s sword flashed silver in the sunlight, then glistened with blood as one by one the men surrounding him fell, to be trampled by the hooves of his horse.
After the last man shrieked and tumbled from his horse, a bruised and bloodied Merrick raised himself in his stirrups.
Constance! Where was Constance?
There, lying on the ground with Lord Osgoode kneeling beside her.
Not taken. Thank God. Not taken.
But oh, God, if she was dead…
He kicked his horse into a gallop and rode toward his fallen wife, barely noticing that his men had succeeded in repelling the attack.
When he reached Lord Osgoode he brought his horseto a halt so swiftly, it sat back on its haunches. He jumped from the saddle and threw himself to his knees beside his pale and motionless wife, everything else forgotten as he stared, horrified, at her white face. “Dead?” he croaked, his throat almost clenched shut with fear.
