De Moray turned to look at the little animal as Luc patched up the puncture. “The mare’s wound is deep but it did not puncture anything vital,” he said. “But that was not an arrow from a tree-dweller. It had a heavy iron head on it that had barbs to embed it in whatever it struck. That is why you could not remove it easily.”
An iron arrowhead with spines in it was a dastardly piece of equipment, designed to maim. “Our tree-dwellers have had some contact with tribes who know how to make weapons to not only kill but to inflict great pain in doing it,” he said ominously. Then, he shifted Ghislaine in Marc’s direction. “Now that we know that, we will be more careful bringing an army into this land. Here, take the lady while I gather my horse. You will take charge of the mare.”
De Moray gently took Ghislaine from Gaetan, holding her in his big arms as Gaetan went for his war horse and Aramis finished binding the leg. By the time de Russe was finished with the dressing, all of the knights had joined them, all of them greatly concerned for the lady who had taken the arrow to her leg. As they jockeyed for position to see the extent of the damage, Gaetan vaulted onto his war horse and rode alongside de Moray, extending his arms for the lady. When she was carefully handed up to him, he settled her across his big thighs and gathered his reins, digging his spurs into the sides of his animal and tearing off down the road as his men followed closely.
At breakneck speed, the knights made their way to the safety of Evesham Abbey.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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That Dark Sky
Tavern of the White Feather
Bicester
It could have been worse.
That’s the way Kristoph looked at the situation with his finger. It was healing very well thanks to the wine he soaked it in almost every night, given to him by the same man who had been giving him food and drink this entire time. At night, wherever he was chained – usually on the wagon and with the livestock – the soldier would bring him food and sit next to him. For the first few nights, the man didn’t say a thing, especially after the episode that saw Kristoph lose the tip of his finger, but a couple of days ago, the man actually began to speak to him.
At first, it was small talk, but last night, it was an entire story about daughters he had lost to the Danes. Mostig was the man’s name and Kristoph listened to the man tell a horrific story about watching his daughters’ abduction and his home going up in flames. Injured, sick, he’d wandered until he’d been found by Edwin of Mercia’s people, who took him in and sheltered him in exchange for his service as a soldier.
Mostig didn’t mention how he came into the service of Alary and Kristoph didn’t ask. In fact, Kristoph didn’t ask anything because he didn’t want his curiosity to get back to Alary. The less antagonizing the man, the better. Kristoph didn’t want to lose another finger.
It was a misty night in the village of Bicester, a densely-populated berg with poorly constructed homes crowded in around each other and torches burning near the town square in a vain attempt to stave off the darkness. The mist was creating a wet coating on everything but the torches had been soaked in fat, which meant more heavy black smoke than flame was pouring from them on this night. It was a very dark night, in fact, with the moon obscured by the clouds. All was eerily quiet and still as the residents of the town huddled behind their locked doors, preparing for sleep.
Kristoph sat on a bed of old straw beneath the wagon, watching the night beyond the livery yard where Alary had stabled his horses for the night. There was a tavern across the street, simply called The White Feather from the sign scratched above the doorway, and he’d seen Alary disappear inside when they’d arrived in town earlier that evening.
Kristoph was expecting his soldier friend to come out of the tavern at some point to give him something to eat but the man hadn’t made an appearance yet, so he sat beneath the wagon and watched the mist fall, his thoughts wandering to his wife and daughter as they so often did these days. Hardly an hour went by that he wasn’t thinking of Adalie and their daughter, Chloe.
It was the only thing that kept him strong enough to stay alive.
Kristoph glanced at his left hand, his long and strong fingers beneath the weak light. The little finger was the one that Alary had cut and he’d been mercifully unconscious when it had happened so he never felt a thing. He’d awoken to a bandaged hand and a little finger that had the top knuckle removed. It really wasn’t all that bad as far as amputations went; it could have been the whole hand and he wouldn’t have known until it was too late, so he was grateful for small mercies.
Still, he wasn’t feeling so merciful towards his captor.
He tried not to think of Alary at all, a man who kept him heavily chained at all hours of the day and night. Alary might have been an arrogant arse with delusions of grandeur, but he wasn’t a fool. He guessed that his captive would try to escape so he kept him tightly bound, always secured to something that was heavier than he was so he couldn’t easily run off. Even now, as Kristoph tested the chains that were secured to the axel of the wagon because testing the anchor of his chains had become a habit, he heard the door to the tavern open.
Men were spilling out into the night, heading over to the livery, and he recognized several of Alary’s men, drunken and loud. He didn’t like when they got drunk because one or more of them always wanted to fight him, challenging the great Norman invader. He didn’t feel like getting into a fight this night so he tried to stay out of sight, sliding back behind the wagon wheel to obscure his form. His ribs were still damaged, his beaten body was slowly healing, and the hand with the half-missing finger was still very sore from the injury.
But one thing was for certain – his strength was returning and, with that, so was his drive to escape these Saxon bastards.
Surprisingly, Alary was one of those who had come from the tavern. Kristoph could see him crossing the road, talking to his men, laughing with them, and drifting in his direction. Since Alary didn’t usually socialize with his men, this was of concern to Kristoph and he watched very carefully as the man crossed the road, hanging on one of his men and laughing uproariously. Unfortunately for Kristoph, Alary seemed to be heading in his direction.
Damnation, he thought. He wasn’t ready to lose another finger, or worse. Alary managed to stay clear of him most of the time, but with drink, he became more aggressive. The closer Alary drew, the more Kristoph braced himself.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite as concealed as he’d hoped. Alary spied him under the wagon bed, tucked back by one of the wheels. He bent sideways to see him more clearly and almost ended up falling over. He laughed.
“Norman?” he called. “What are you doing under there? I can see you. Come out from there!”