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earl thought. “Come, man, think. Surely he gave you a name. Come, and you’ll die quickly, even the instant after you speak.”
“Roland,” the farmer said after another strike of the thong. “It was Roland.”
Edmond, Earl of Clare, stared at the man a moment longer, then nodded to his henchman. He pulled a dagger from his belt and slid it cleanly into the farmer’s heart. The man slumped, his head falling on his chest, the manacles rattling as he went limp.
Who, Edmond wondered as he strode back into Tyberton’s great hall, was Roland? A man hired by Damon, no doubt, to bring the girl back to him. Well, he wouldn’t make it, that damned fake priest to whom he’d given his spiritual trust. But not all his trust. Deep inside he’d known the man was a fraud. He was too handsome, his body too well-honed for a man of exclusively divine concerns. He should have guessed it immediately when the castle women had wanted him so blatantly. And he’d gotten her away so very easily, the damned whoreson.
Edmond called MacLeod, his master-at-arms. He slapped his thick leather gauntlets against his thigh as he spoke. “Prepare a dozen men. We ride into Wales to fetch back the little mistress and the erstwhile priest. He stole her, took her against her will. We will rescue her. Bring enough provisions for several weeks. We ride hard.”
MacLeod said nothing. It wasn’t his business to disagree or question the lord or even think twice about his commands. The little mistress had left Tyberton willingly enough, everyone knew that, but they would find her, kill the sham priest, and bring her back to the earl’s bed. They left Tyberton within the hour, the Earl of Clare at their head.
In Wales
Roland pulled both his sword and his dagger as he ran headlong toward the pine thicket. He heard a soft gurgling sound and felt his blood freeze. Had someone killed her?
He slowed, hearing low-pitched voices—two men— and they had Daria. They spoke quietly, but he made out their words, the soft Welsh clear to him.
“—to Llanrwst, quickly.”
“But the man, what to do with the man?”
“We’ll be gone before he misses her. Leave him, leave him. Go quiet now. Quiet.”
Roland slipped between the pines until he reached a small clearing where a narrow stream sliced through the sodden grass. One man, tall and built like a mountain, had slung Daria over his shoulder. The other man, short and ragged as the Welsh ponies Roland had seen, was following close behind, glancing furtively over his shoulder every few moments.
Suddenly rain began to fall, slow drizzling rain that was gray and silent. One of the men cursed softly.
Roland followed as quietly as he could, but his boots squished in the wet grass. The rain thickened, coming down in dense sheets, blotting out the trees and the hills and adding to the sounds of a rushing waterfall not far distant. There were forlorn caws from rooks and kingfishers. This damned land—one minute the sun was shining brightly and now there was near-darkness and it was but midafternoon. Roland swiped rain from his eyes and crept after the men.
They made their way slowly but steadily to a small cave cut through boulders into the hillside. Roland drew back, watching them enter. He saw a lantern lit and a dull light issue forth. He drew closer, until he could hear the men speaking.
“—damnable rain . . . glaw, glaw . . . always rain.”
“Will ye take her, Myrddin? Now?”
“Nay, the girl’s wet and nearly dead. Leave her there in a corner and cover her.”
So they’d discovered she wasn’t a boy. Not much of a discovery, since her disguise wouldn’t have fooled Roland for an instant. These men either, evidently. Had they struck her hard? Roland didn’t want to admit it, but his first thought was for her, not for the money he would lose if he didn’t bring her back to her uncle alive and a virgin.
No, he said to himself. She was goods to be delivered, nothing more. She was a bundle to haul around and return safely to her uncle.
He pulled back and gave himself up to thought. It was still early; the men would have to split up for hunting. The huge man—his name was Myrddin, if Roland had heard the other man aright—didn’t look like he would want to miss his supper. Roland was content to wait under an overhang of slick rock, sheltered from the endless gray rain.
It wasn’t long before Myrddin emerged from the cave, cursed the rain in a way he’d good-naturedly curse a friend he saw nearly every day, then set off at a trot, his bow and arrow under his right arm. Slowly Roland made his way forward until he stood just outside the cave. He leaned forward until he could see the other man, the short one with the bowed legs. He was kneeling over Daria, staring at her. He slowly lifted the filthy blanket and continued to stare.
Roland suddenly saw the Earl of Clare in his mind’s eye, saw his hand disappear beneath Daria’s shift, knowing that he would penetrate her with his finger, and as Roland looked on now as another man was gaping at her, his hand moving closer to her breast, Roland couldn’t stand it. He leaned nearly double and crossed the entrance into the cave as silently as a bat flying at midnight. The man didn’t hear him. The fire the men had set was burning sluggishly, throwing off choking smoke, and Roland inhaled it and coughed.
The man whirled about, and Roland leapt on him. He was of greater size and strength, luckily, and his fingers closed in a death grip about the man’s throat. He gurgled and his face darkened and his eyes bulged and still Roland squeezed, his rage overcoming his sense, until he heard Daria whisper, “Nay, Roland, do not kill him. Nay.”
He was breathing harshly and released his hold from the man’s throat. He rolled off him. “Are you all right?”
Daria took stock of herself and nodded. “Aye. They came upon me when I was preparing to return to you. The large one struck his fist against my head.” She shook her head gently as she spoke. “Aye, I’ll live, but we must leave here before he returns.”
But Roland shook his head. He wanted to kill the man.
And Daria saw what he wanted and said quickly, “I’m frightened.”
“You’re safe with me. This lout planned to rape you and then hold you for his mountainous friend’s pleasure. He’s an outcast, a bandit, and I’ll not let him live, not take the chance that he’ll follow us and try to take you again.”
