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“At least, I should be the one slipping into the tent,” Ré said, and Cormac, hands still in her hair, nodded. “Or myself, my
lady.”
She sighed. “We have already been over this. There will almost certainly be guardsmen inside the tent, and they will not be distracted by a man stepping into their tent, at least not in the way we want. Only a woman can do that. Whereas the guards outside the tent will be very distracted by an argument occurring in front of their faces. With a juggler.”
Ré watched in dismay, and Bran watched, impassive, as Cormac dropped his hands, her hair apparently sufficiently tousled. She smiled at him and tugged at the laces of her gown, loosening them a little more.
Ré closed his eyes. Cormac examined her with a soldier’s eye, then nodded. “You’ll do,” he said. Ré groaned.
“The green tent is Ludthorpe’s,” Bran informed her.
She nodded and tugged her hood forward.
“You get Aodh, and you go,” Ré said grimly as they started walking. “Do not wait for us. We meet back at the cave.”
They made it into the camp easily, and moved straight toward the green tent. Katarina hung back, head averted, hood up, waiting until Ré and Cormac started a full-on argument that was clearly tending toward violence, then skirted behind the two guardsmen who, as predicted, stepped forward to watch, and slipped inside the tent.
She straightened immediately, prepared to offer explanations and anything else that might be required, momentarily, in order to distract the men and free Aodh. She would just have to hope Aodh could, at some point, offer his own invaluable assistance.
But there were no soldiers. There was only darkness, the pale ambient light of moon and fire that filtered in from outside, and a single figure, slumped sideways on the ground, propped against the tent pole, arms wrenched behind his back, lashed with rope.
“Aodh,” she whispered. “Oh dear God.”
His face had been beaten. Dried blood formed a crusted river down his cheek and jaw and neck, stuck to his clothes. His booted legs were stretched out, half-bent, boot heels dug into the earth. His head hung to the side, as if he was unconscious. Or…dead.
Her body, which had been flushed hot from tension and excitement and endless movement for days now, went cold, full cold, from her fingertips to her toes, and all the way to her heart.
Her heart managed to thud out two sodden beats, then, choking slightly, she dropped to her knees at his side, her knife out. What sort of beast would do this to a helpless man…
His body suddenly twisted up and over in a shocking move, knocked her off-balance. His boot came up and kicked the blade out of her hand. It tumbled away, flashing, and before she could open her mouth, he had kicked her over onto her side and wrapped his legs around her, her arms and torso trapped in the grip of his powerful thighs. His hands were still tied behind his back, the blade three feet away.
So much for “helpless.”
“Aodh,” she breathed against the hard press of his legs.
His eyes, one of which was almost swollen shut, opened. “Katy?” his voice scraped hoarsely.
“Dear God,” she whispered. “What happened?”
“Bertrand,” he said, releasing her.
“I will kill him,” she vowed, shaking with fury and fear. She knelt beside him as he rolled to his side, presenting his bound hands.
“How…get here?” he croaked. Outside the tent, the argument raged, the shadows of people pressed onto the walls of the tent.
“Ré and Cormac,” she whispered, gesturing to the bodies and now-raging argument, and swiftly sliced through the ropes.
In a flash, he took the knife and cut the away bindings trapping his ankles, and staggered to his feet.
He swayed at once, stumbling sideways. She caught him, her arms tight around his ribs as they stumbled together for a moment. His breathing was harsh. She leaned them gently against the center pole and, fumbling with a hand, tugged a flask off her belt.
He downed half of it, trickles of it wetting the beard now covering his face. She looked over her shoulder. The shouts were ever-present, and by the shadows, it appeared a few punches had been thrown, so the fight was escalating apace, but the shadows of bodies were all clustered around the tent flap. Slipping out undetected would be impossible.
Aodh handed the flask back, wiping his chin with his forearm. “Whisky,” he said thickly. “Gave me…whisky.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, why did you drink it?,” she whispered fumbling for another flask. “I thought it was water.”
“Was perfect.” He pulled her to him, kissed her with his swollen, torn-open mouth, then spun her to the back of the tent. “Under,” he ordered in a rasp.
