Knave's Honour. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ took the knife out of her mouth. “Keldra, come! We have to run!”

      “I can’t! I can’t!”

      “Yes, you can! You must!”

      A man came around the wagon—Lindall, on foot, smiling like the devil himself, evil intent visible on his familiar, homely features.

      “Looks like somebody gave my lady a little toy,” he sneered as he ran his gaze over her and her knife.

      Gripping the dagger tightly, she backed away from him. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home, at Averette.”

      “If I stayed there, what would I get?” he returned, his voice loud enough to be heard above the din of the fighting men nearby. “Some food, a place to sleep, a little money for sport now and then.”

      He grinned, exposing his ruined teeth, and his eyes gleamed with hate. “I’m a rich man now—or I will be soon. A hundred marks Lord Wimarc’s promised me if I bring you to him.”

      Confusion joined her fear. “Who’s Lord Wimarc? What does he want with me?”

      “You’ll find out soon enough, my lady,” Lindall said as he went to grab her.

      She sidestepped him and turned, ready to run—until she remembered Keldra, sobbing in the wagon. Keldra, who was but fifteen, and terrified.

      She spun on her heel and lunged at Lindall. He raised his shield, easily avoiding her blow, then grabbed her right wrist, twisting until she cried out and dropped her dagger. He kicked it away with his blood-spattered boot.

      “Don’t try to fight me, my lady,” he snarled as he hauled her close, his stinking breath hot on her face. “I’ve got your men outnumbered, and mine are vicious brutes, trained killers from all over Europe. Your men are doomed and you’re mine now—at least until I hand you over to Wimarc. So don’t give me no trouble, or you’ll regret it.”

      Her view of the battle was blocked by the wagon; nevertheless, she wouldn’t believe his men would defeat hers. Her men had been trained by Iain Mac Kendren. Outnumbered or not, it would make no difference. They would win.

      “You’re going to be caught and hanged for what you’ve done,” she charged. “If you’ve harmed Iain—”

      “Harmed him?” Lindall replied with a coarse laugh. “I’ve killed him.”

      No! she silently wailed, her knees nearly buckling, as he tugged on her aching wrist.

      “You’re caught, my lady, and now I’m going to get my money.”

      Rage rose up, strengthened by her grief. Gritting her teeth, she planted her feet. Whatever Lindall planned to do, wherever he wanted to take her, he would have to drag her.

      Curling his lip, keeping hold of her wrist, still gripping his sword with his right hand, he kicked her left leg hard.

      “I said, don’t give me no trouble. I’ll break your leg if I have to.”

      She nearly fell as he tugged her toward the wagon, but she managed to stay on her feet. She squirmed and struggled and tried to hit him.

      “Stay there, Keldra!” she ordered when they reached it.

      Inside, Keldra lay curled up in a little whimpering ball of fear. “Whatever he says or does, don’t get down!”

      Lindall hauled her close. “Shut your gob, you stupid wench—you with that pretty little nose of yours always in the air, laughing while the rest of us have to work and march and drill, shouted at by that damn Scot.”

      As she continued to struggle, another sort of look came to Lindall’s face, one that threatened to send her into a different sort of panic. “Wimarc never said you had to be a virgin. No, he never said nothing about that, so I’ll have you, and maybe your maid, too. Maybe the rest of the men should have a taste of you, too, before I get my money.”

      Truly terrified, Lizette fought even harder, while Keldra began to wail louder.

      “Shut up!” Lindall snarled at the poor girl.

      Yet in that moment, while his attention was on Keldra, Lizette saw a chance. She put her hands on his armored chest and shoved him backward with all her might. He collided with the edge of the wagon, then fell forward onto his knees.

      “Come on!” she called to Keldra—and this time, her maid didn’t hesitate. She clambered over the side of the wagon and started to run down the road.

      Yanking up her skirts so she wouldn’t trip over them, Lizette ran after her. Her cloak flapped out behind her like a pennant in the breeze; her coronet fell off her head, and then her veil, but she didn’t care. Unfortunately, her bodice wasn’t laced for running and soon she could hardly breathe—but still she didn’t stop.

      Until a hand grabbed hold of her cloak and jerked her to a halt.

      “Oh, no you don’t,” Lindall barked as he pulled her back. “Think you’re going to get away when Lord Wimarc’s offered all that money, and I can have my way with you?”

      A sob of fear and helplessness broke from Lizette’s throat as Keldra kept running, not looking back. Leaving her.

      “Let go o’ the lady and drop yer sword, boyo, or I’ll be runnin’ you through and sendin’ you straight to hell.”

      Lizette’s breath caught. She knew that voice. Dear God, she knew that voice! Sir Oliver, come like a hero to save her!

      With a sound between a sob and a cry of joy, she turned to see Sir Oliver with the point of his sword pressing against Lindall’s back as the former second-in-command of Averette raised his arms in surrender.

      “Go after your maid, my lady,” Sir Oliver said. “Now, before this blackguard’s men realize you’re getting away.”

      She nodded once and gathered up her skirts, then hesitated. “And you?”

      Sir Oliver gave her a smile that had no mirth or joy in it. “I’ll join you soon, my lady.”

      Pleased, relieved, but far from feeling safe, she did as he told her, and ran.

      THE IRISHMAN, who was sometimes known as Sir Oliver de Leslille, waited until Lady Elizabeth was out of sight, then ordered the lout at the end of his sword to go into the woods.

      He hadn’t planned to interfere. He hadn’t even been following Lady Elizabeth’s cortege. Yet he’d been close by and heard the sounds of fighting, and when he’d seen the hard-nosed Scot lying dead on the ground, he’d known there was only one thing to do: find the lady and her maid and keep them safe.

      Thank God he’d gotten to them in time … although he might not be such a hero as he wanted to believe. As she’d faced her enemy, her bountiful fair hair disheveled, her clothing rumpled and muddy, Lady Elizabeth had been no meek and terrified victim; he had seen the fierce courage in her eyes and knew she would have fought to the death to protect herself and, even more impressively, her maidservant.

      “Hurry up,” СКАЧАТЬ