The Traitor's Daughter. Joanna Makepeace

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СКАЧАТЬ as fear and tried desperately to free herself from the man’s grasp, but he continued to drag her backwards, her heels trailing helplessly on the cobbles. The fellow appeared to be alone and yet he was so strong that she feared he would be able to drag her where he wished and that she would be helpless to prevent him. Even in her desperation she feared for Peter. If she were unable to help him, he could die there in this dank straw-spattered courtyard, an ignominious end for a man who had faced often far greater dangers. And she—she could not doubt her own fate and knew with blinding clarity that her attacker would be unlikely to leave her alive after he had finished with her. Would he make for the stable? If so, her mother, also, was in deadly danger, but no, he was aware that the stable was inhabited and he would not risk her mother screaming for help and the possibility that in the ensuing chaos his prey would perhaps manage to free herself. She tried to keep calm. He obviously knew of some other shelter where he intended to drag her. If she waited for the opportunity, surely she would then manage to free herself momentarily, at least to shout out a warning to her mother. Yet, even so, she coolly debated the wisdom of that. Her mother would have a better chance of escaping this fellow’s attentions if she, Philippa, remained quiet and allowed him to do what he wished. As these thoughts raced through her mind there was no time for hysteria or panic. Her fear was absolute, but for the present, she was helpless to affect her own fate. The time it took to drag her to some secluded spot seemed elongated. In actual fact it could only have taken moments, yet she appeared to have opportunity to think out rationally what she could and could not do and what would be best for her mother’s safety. It would be only minutes now before she was pulled into shelter and she did not doubt that her molester would free her mouth only to render her senseless with a blow to the face.

      She prayed to the Virgin and to St Catherine, the patron saint of maidens, to give her the courage to face what must be. Then, suddenly, miraculously, another voice spoke menacingly behind her. She could not understand the words for they were uttered, presumably, in Welsh, but the import was unmistakable. Abruptly she was released to fall forward onto her face.

      Sobbing with terror, she scrambled up and half-turned to find her attacker had been seized from behind, as she herself had been, and, even in the dim light of the darkened courtyard, she could see the dullish gleam of a dagger held against the fellow’s throat. She staggered back, unsure if she were being rescued or had fallen into the hands of another merciless attacker. The man who had first seized her was crouching awkwardly, making inarticulate sounds of rage and fear. Unceremoniously he was dragged to his feet, still with the dagger menacing his throat, and pulled some distance clear away from her.

      She could not see the man she hoped was her rescuer clearly, but by his bulky shape, wrapped in a dark frieze cloak, she realised that he was a big man, towering over his prisoner, who was now continuing to babble incoherently in Welsh, his terror only too apparent.

      The newcomer spoke again commandingly and the blubbering ceased. Another sharp command, in English, this time, alerted a third man to the scene who, apparently, had been waiting his opportunity to come to the newcomer’s assistance.

      “David, come, take possession of this fellow and cart him off to the nearest constable. I’ve felt him for weapons and found only a single dagger, but take care.” He tossed the weapon down at their feet where it clanged on the cobbles. “You can never tell with these ruffians where they manage to conceal others. Hold him for a moment while I secure his hands.”

      Still trembling, Philippa felt unable to move, let alone run. She could not see clearly what her rescuer was about, but guessed that he had used some belt about his person to make her attacker secure. The fellow was still murmuring promises and pleas, which were abruptly cut short, so she thought he had been unceremoniously gagged.

      The man addressed as David, also a well-muscled fighting man, judging by his lumbering bulk, jerked at his prisoner’s bound arms and dragged him away. Since he had made no answer to her rescuer’s orders but instantly obeyed them, Philippa gathered that he was used to doing so and was, probably, his servant.

      She managed to let out a little, breathless gasp at last and the man who had come to her rescue came instantly forward and put out a hand to steady her.

      “Are you hurt? You are, I take it, one of the English travellers just arrived at the inn and taken up residence with my horses in the stable, or so the landlord informs me?”

      “Yes,” she whispered throatily, “I thank you, sir. My mother is in the stable and my…” she hesitated, then recollected herself suddenly and the need to guard her identity “…my uncle lies injured some paces off. No, I am not hurt, that fellow had only just grabbed me as—as I was trying to help my uncle. He—he took me by surprise but—but he had no time to—hurt me.”

      “Thank the Virgin,” he said curtly. “Show me where your relative lies and I’ll summon assistance from the tap room, then you must go to your mother.”

      She was feeling even more trembly now and she staggered and would have fallen had he not once more put out a sturdy arm to catch her. She felt an unaccountable tremor pass through her at the touch of his fingers and struggled a little to pull free, but he continued to hold her firmly.

      “What is it? You are not afraid of me, are you?” The voice was clear, slightly lilting—as all voices, she thought, must be here in Wales or even on the Border, her mother had told her—but it was also hard, uncompromising, authoritative, and she wondered just who he was and if she could trust him. He had come to her rescue seemingly, but her attacker had known him or recognised his authority and she feared that he might question her, demand proof of her identity. He could well be a magistrate and answerable to the Crown for the good behaviour of those within his district.

      “No, no.” She was afraid that reaction had set in and that she was liable to break into tears. That she must not do before this commanding stranger. “I am sorry, sir, that I have not yet recovered my balance, it seems. Please…”

      She led him to where Peter lay and was thankful to see, as they approached, that Peter was slowly coming to himself now and giving sharp little cries of pain.

      Philippa’s rescuer gestured her imperatively to stand slightly aside and dropped to one knee beside the sufferer and examined the head wound gently, as she had done. She marvelled at the gentle, sensitive touch of those strong large hands.

      “It appears that he was struck from behind, possibly with the hilt of a dagger, mistress. Fortunately the wound does not seem to be too serious as already he is coming to himself. Head wounds can be dangerous and unconsciousness can sometimes last for hours—or even weeks.”

      He stood up and removed his cloak so that now she could see that he was, indeed, a tall, muscular man with massive shoulders, though she thought by the hardness of his body, as he had held her momentarily against his chest, that there was not an ounce of surplus fat upon him. Obviously he kept himself in superb fighting form. Was he a soldier, a mercenary?—but his commanding manner gave her the impression that he had some standing in the district and was more than likely a knight. Could he possibly be the lord the landlord had spoken of?

      As if in answer to her unspoken question he addressed her as he rose to his feet once more. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Rhys Griffith and, like you, I am accommodated at the inn.”

      So her surmise had been correct. He was indeed lordly. No wonder the innkeeper had not offered to request that he vacate, for her mother’s use, the private room he had bespoken.

      He was continuing. “You can leave this man’s care in my hands, mistress, and go to your mother. She will be frantic for news of you both, I am sure. I will see to it that your uncle is conveyed to the inn and then I will come and inform you what is best to be done.”

      Philippa СКАЧАТЬ