The Saxon Outlaw's Revenge

‘Rich, were you? Before you ran?’ Osgood asked, crossing his arms. ‘Some of us have always lived like this.’

Another slip. Careful, he warned himself.

‘Whatever we were, this is no way I want to live. The Normans took our lands and our lives. We steal a pitiful amount from their tenants and woods, but it’s time we took more. Who cares what the Pig has got himself? I don’t want him to have it.’

‘And if it is a bride?’ Wulf asked, determined not to let go of his idea.

Caddoc grinned. He fingered the dagger at his waist.

‘Then we’ll steal her, too.’

Chapter Three (#u27bc089d-3a90-5a8e-9de3-d461d29f3a75)

Constance hated travelling. The weather made matters worse. Despite having no eagerness to be in Robert’s company she would wish away the journey to Hamestan in exchange for a soft mattress and no more early rising to be on the road in fog that dampened every layer of clothing. The long hours in the saddle made her leg ache and the company that had been inflicted on her made each day seem twice as long. She would have preferred to ride faster but Rollo, the escort Robert de Coudray had sent, had insisted on travelling at a stately pace since they had entered the Cheshire forest.

She let her mind wander; counting the shafts of sunlight that peeked through the trees, casting shadows across the narrow road. Her companions were equally silent. After almost two weeks in each other’s company they had reached the stage where light conversation was neither necessary nor welcome. Constance wondered which of them would be reporting her conduct back to Robert. Rollo, probably, though it could equally be the guards in black who rode with Constance’s strongbox and possessions strapped to their panniers, or the grey-cowled monk who never strayed far from her side.

‘Can we rest for a while?’ she asked.

‘Not until we’re through the forest. This country is crawling with rogues who would slit your throat as soon as fart,’ Rollo grunted. His eyes roved up and down Constance’s body, lingering on her knee-length tunic that revealed hose-clad calves. ‘Or more if they see through your disguise.’

Constance scowled, not prepared to have the same argument again. Her choice of clothing had already raised eyebrows, but she insisted nevertheless. Skirts were too cumbersome for long rides and her thick winter cloak and hood would attract much less attention from any thieves waiting in the woods than the finery of a well-dressed lady. With her hair tightly coiled at her neck and concealed under a woollen cowl she looked more like an unassuming page than a woman.

‘If you’re right we should move faster, especially if we want to reach the inn before sunset,’ she said. Rollo hacked up spittle and slapped his horse’s rear, increasing from a walk to a trot. Constance resisted the urge to break into a gallop and leave him behind, knowing it would lead to even more disapproval.

‘Are there really men living wild here?’ she asked the monk.

He nodded solemnly. ‘Everywhere.’

‘Murderers, thieves and exiles. They had to crawl somewhere when our lords took their lands,’ Rollo added. ‘We’ll be at the bridge soon, then we can breathe easier.’

Constance eyed the deep forest nervously, half-expecting to see a figure lying in wait behind every tree. She fingered the dagger at her waist for reassurance and increased the pace a little.

The rough road followed the path of a stream that widened until the river was in full flow with snow melt. She searched for signs of familiarity in the rising hills, but there were none. Of course she had been in no condition to observe the scenery last time she had travelled this path. Insensible with pain in her back and head, bleeding and bruised, she had been borne on a litter to the convent in Brockley. Vomit rose in her throat at the memory and she almost turned the mare’s head to flee until she remembered her promise to Hugh. Continuing to Hamestan was the only way to secure her future and serve retribution on Robert.

As they neared the crossing Rollo swore. A cart had lost a wheel, spilling its load of logs across the bridge while the ragged hooded driver tried unsuccessfully to right it using a thick log as a lever. Rollo dismounted and began to bellow at the old man, presumably believing that would clear the obstruction.

‘We should help him clear the path,’ Constance said. ‘That will be quicker.’ And kinder, she did not say aloud.

She climbed down, pulling her stick from the pannier at her saddle, and began to walk forward. The monk dismounted and walked towards the bridge, leaving only the two guards mounted.

It was then the ambush occurred.

The cart driver swung upright with the log he was holding, catching Rollo under the chin. He went down like a felled tree. As Rollo hit the ground another man clambered from beneath the bridge, short sword in one hand and a heavy cudgel in the other. He was long limbed and lean, dressed in a rough brown tunic with a leather jerkin on top of that. A hood was pulled low, casting a shadow over his face.

‘Now!’ he cried.

The monk dropped to his knees in front of Constance.

‘Run, child,’ he said urgently, before he began to pray loudly.

Knowing she would get no true aid from him, Constance turned around in time to see a further three men also armed with swords and wooden staffs bursting from amid the trees. They hurled themselves at the mounted guards who kicked out, trying to beat their attackers off while they struggled to draw their swords. The cart driver who had felled Rollo had turned his attention to the monk. He was not as old or frail as Constance had first imagined. The monk offered no resistance when the man began roping his hands behind his back and only increased the volume of his prayers.

The air filled with cries of anger and exertion. The guards were pulled from their mounts, but had succeeded in drawing their weapons and began to return the blows they were dealt.

Stomach knotting, Constance staggered back against her horse. Running was futile. She was too slow and where would she go anyway? She crouched on the ground, trying to make herself as unobtrusive as possible against the mare’s legs.

The man from beneath the bridge had been kneeling beside Rollo. Seemingly satisfied that the bodyguard was no threat, he cleared the ground in a handful of strides. The guards would be no match when the odds were four against two.

But four against three...

As the hooded man passed her, Constance hurled her stick at his legs. It caught him a blow on the ankles and he tripped forward. He threw his arms out, recovering his footing almost instantly, and whipped his head round to see who had obstructed him. His hood slipped back and Constance caught a glimpse of his face, or at least the hair that flopped down to his neck and the wild, shaggy beard that covered his jaw. His blue eyes were strikingly bright amid the blond tangle and now they narrowed with fury as they regarded Constance.

‘There’s another over here!’ he shouted.

Cursing her own stupidity Constance pushed herself to her feet. The assailants had been so intent on capturing the guards they had overlooked her presence so to draw attention to it had been the height of foolishness. Now she was most probably going to die alongside the guards. She lurched sideways as her weaker leg sent her off balance, but threw herself in the direction of the woods. She aimed herself blindly at the thick undergrowth, her only hope being to find somewhere to hide. Before she had gone five paces a pair of hands seized her from behind.

‘No, you don’t, lad!’

The man she had tripped wrapped his arms tight around Constance’s waist, pinning her arms to her side. She threw her head back, trying to wrestle free, but his grip was unbreakable. His arms locked around her with a strength she had never before encountered and she felt herself lifted off the ground as easily as a child. She kicked and bucked wildly, but her resistance made no difference and she was carried back to the road.

Her captor threw her to her knees and cuffed her round the ear with the back of his hand. The blow wasn’t very hard, clearly intended as a warning rather than to cause injury, but nevertheless it set her head spinning. Once she had been hardened against such treatment, but now the violence came as a shock. She bit back tears. No man would weep at such a blow.

‘Stay still and you might live, boy,’ he growled, his accent curling oddly in Constance’s ears. Whoever he was his accent did not sound like the men of Cheshire.

The man trained his sword on Constance’s breast, hardly casting a glance at her face. Despite her terror Constance let out a long breath of relief. Her disguise had not been discovered. She tilted her head to try to see what was happening behind her. Her blood chilled. One guard lay dead, the other bravely stood his ground against three men, but even as she watched he was knocked to the ground and pinned on his belly by a foot in the back. The cart driver hauled the monk to kneel beside Constance as the nearest brigand began to hack at the straps holding the pannier containing Constance’s strongbox to the saddle.

‘Get the box quickly, Ulf,’ Constance’s captor said, speaking with an authority that confirmed what she had suspected—he was the leader. ‘I want to be gone before anyone else appears.’

He reached down and seized hold of her by the neck of her cloak, leaning his face into hers. Constance braced herself for discovery of her deception, but a roar of rage made them both start. At the river’s edge Rollo had clambered to his feet and was staggering towards Constance, blood smearing his lips and chin. She sobbed with relief, her terror abating slightly, but her optimism was short lived as her supposed saviour lumbered past them, knocking Constance aside as though she had not existed. He aimed instead for the two men who were freeing the small, iron-hinged box from its leather bindings.

Constance’s mouth fell open in shock and disbelief. The bodyguard was supposed to protect her above all else. Rollo drew his weapon as he ran. Constance’s captor let go of her cloak, closing the distance between himself and Rollo with a bellow of warning, but he was too late. With a cry Rollo thrust his sword straight between the shoulder blades of the nearest man, who buckled at the knees, falling forward. With a speed that stopped the breath in Constance’s throat the hooded man twisted round. He had his weapon raised by the time he completed the turn but before he could reach Rollo the cart driver had pushed the monk aside and planted his own weapon deep in Rollo’s back, twisting viciously.

With a grunt Rollo fell forward, landing almost on top of his victim. The cart driver fell to his knees beside the bodies and gave a keening sob of anguish.

‘Wulf! My son!’

He pushed Rollo’s corpse to the side and rolled the limp body on to its back and cradled it protectively. The hooded man dropped to his knees alongside and put his arm around the older man’s shoulders. He gently pushed the dead man’s hood back and the victim’s head lolled to one side.

He was only a boy. Constance sagged back on to her heels, a burst of compassion punching her in the stomach at the sight of the father’s grief. Her head felt far too light and she feared she might faint, but through her terror it struck her that she was unobserved once more. The two deaths had granted her a reprieve that she would surely not get again. She began slowly to edge towards her horse, never expecting to make it, and surreptitiously releasing her dagger from its sheath as a precaution.

There was a cry, then hands on her shoulder. She twisted around and swiped sideways with the dagger at whoever was behind her. It barely penetrated the leather jerkin of the hooded man and didn’t strike flesh. He seized her wrist, tightening his fingers and digging the nails in until the pain forced her to let go of the weapon with a shrill cry. He kicked it away and pushed her to the ground.

‘I told you not to move. It wouldn’t take much for Gerrod to spear you like a pig ready for the spit and right now I wouldn’t stop him.’

‘Why not let him?’ Constance said. Her throat tightened with terror. Somehow she had had the presence of mind to deepen her voice. ‘You’re going to kill us anyway, aren’t you?’

Did she mean it? Every sense screamed no, she wanted to live, whatever it took.