Beauchamp Besieged. Elaine Knighton
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Название: Beauchamp Besieged
Автор: Elaine Knighton
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
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Raymond did not reply. It was difficult to converse with her calmly, to look at her without staring, to pretend he did not want her on her back, then and there. That aside, he did not care to spend the night in the woods.
To make matters worse, big drops of rain began to splash earthward, pocking the dust of the trail and making the fallen leaves bounce beneath their impact. With the opening of the clouds, a shudder seemed to go through the forest.
The back of his neck prickled. Danger. Close by, and more than he could handle alone, Raymond was certain. He caught a shadowy movement between the trees and straightened, hand on sword hilt. “Get behind me, lady. Hamfast, stay with her!”
There, from the deepening twilight of the forest, a group of men emerged. With silent footsteps and menace in their faces, they advanced, bearing lances. Pikes. Swords and axes. Without warning, they charged, yelling like demons.
Raymond’s furious reaction was lightning-fast. Shrinking away, Ceridwen watched in as much astonishment as terror. His sword whistled clear of his scabbard quicker than her eye could follow. He roared and swung it in great arcs, cleaving wood and bone alike. The attackers regrouped and set upon him afresh.
Beauchamp fought as one possessed, spun and ducked and sliced until four of the surviving men brought him down from behind. Hamfast stood between Ceridwen and the fight, quivering with the apparent effort of not joining his master.
Well hidden behind a tree, Ceridwen peeked through her fingers, horrified at the savage blows showered upon the knight, until he no longer moved. She quaked at the sight of so much blood, and was ashamed she could not aid him.
“Hah! Who would’ve thought it’d be so easy? He’s no such a dragon after all.” A big man grinned down at Raymond’s body, now being bound, hand and foot.
“Speak for yourself, you great ox.” Another man cradled his bloodied arm, and looked mournfully at his fallen comrades.
“Where’s the lass, then?”
“What lass?”
“Never mind, she’s hared off. The warden’ll get her and the other on the morrow, when it’s light. But this black is a grand horse, indeed! Need we show it to his lordship, do you think?”
Relieved that for the moment they were more interested in Grendel than in herself, Ceridwen waited, biting her lip. The magnificent courser, so easily frightened by apparitions, greeted the attentions of the strangers with even less grace.
He reared, snapping his lead, and struck out at them with his front hooves. Whirling, he plunged into the gloom of the forest, leaving the now captive pony to whinny after him.
Ceridwen watched as the men dumped Raymond facedown over its back. They left, carrying their dead, with Beauchamp in tow. An unexpectedly vast and painful emptiness yawned within her as he was taken away. Englishman or no, it was terrible to see someone she had thought invincible, defeated by lesser men.
She knelt and threw her arms about Hamfast’s neck, hugged him and wept into his rough fur. Was Beauchamp alive? What had the brigands meant, they would get her and “the other” tomorrow? What other? And, “his lordship” could be any of a number of warring barons along the Marches.
Her tired muscles ached and she shivered as the pelting rain began to soak through her clothes. She would have to find her way to Rookhaven and get help, following the path. But Raymond had said this was a shortcut, not the way he had brought her the time before. Nothing looked familiar.
Fighting down her panic, Ceridwen took a deep breath, and decided to follow the outlaws as best she could. As she took her first few steps, a soft trilling met her ears. The notes ran up and down, now sounding the song of a woodthrush, now the chirp of a sparrow. She must be dreaming. Small birds did not sing thus, so late in the day, and certainly not in a cold downpour.
Hamfast barked and a shriek left Ceridwen’s throat as a man seemed to materialize out of the air before her. The fact that he was doing the whistling, not the birds, stopped her flight for an instant. In that time she beheld the rough-bearded face of a young man, browned both by the sun and an abundance of dirt. His blue eyes were placid, his presence benign, and her fear melted away, leaving confused exhaustion in its wake.
To her relief Hamfast merely nosed the man, then sat down, apparently unworried. The fellow stood quietly, his wild tangle of fawn-colored hair replete with leaves and twigs.
Ceridwen caught her breath. This was none other than the ghost himself. No wraith, she was now certain, but a human, filthy, barefoot, and older than she had first thought, for there was white mixed in the dark-blond hair. She found her voice.
“My name is Ceri. W-who are you?”
He shrugged in answer and did not meet her eyes. Clustering the fingertips of one slender hand, he put them to his mouth. The wrist exposed by his motion was circled by scars, like those left by manacles. Perhaps he had escaped some dungeon, but the poor wanderer must be hungry.
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