Chapter Twelve
Since leaving the Bird in Hand, Ralph and Dudley had followed Cristen’s trail with ease. The recent rain, and the subsequent lack of it, had worked in Ralph’s favor. The damp earth kept a record of all who had gone before, but Ralph soon learned to distinguish the hoof prints he sought. One set, slightly larger than the other, had a back right shoe with a nick in it. An easy identifier.
Cristen, the man named Turi, and the elderly baron, had apparently stayed at two more inns on the Gloucester road. On each occasion, adding heat to Ralph’s simmering ire, Cristen had bedded down her so-called protector. The man, apparently, had the bearing of a warrior and was armed with sword and bow. The sword certainly implied status of some kind. Knighthood at least. Yet the mystery of his origins remained. In any case, he appeared to have left an impression with those he encountered, and for different reasons. The whoreson cast a large shadow, in or out of the sunlight.
But Ralph had remained undeterred. He was no slouch with a sword, either. Plus, he had the advantage of surprise, since he’d seen nothing to suggest they knew about their pursuers. With each daylight hour, the gap between hunters and hunted diminished and Ralph’s excitement grew. One more day, he reckoned, and he’d be right on their tail.
But the following morning, Dudley, curse the man, had begun to show signs of illness. A damp brow, face flush with fever, the struggle to stay atop his horse evident. Ralph, recalling the death knell at Abbotsbury, wondered if the pestilence had followed them and said as much.
Dudley waved the comment away. “’Tis merely a touch of ague, my lord,” he insisted, and spurred his horse onward. But by that afternoon, it became clear the man was failing. By nightfall, Ralph realized their plan of attack would have to change, and drastically.
So far, it had gone well. Perfectly, in fact.
He had her.
At first, Ralph feared he’d hit the lass too hard and killed her. The blow to the back of her head had not drawn blood, but she’d crumpled like a slain deer and nigh on tumbled into the water. Draped belly-down and limp across the horse’s withers, she still appeared lifeless. Her face was as pale as snow, with bluish circles beneath her eyes. As he had several times already, Ralph placed the back of his hand to her lips, glad to feel a whisper of exhaled air.
He didn’t want her dead. Not yet, at least.
There would be no going back to Frehampton. Not now. Not ever. Ralph’s fate had been sealed, it seemed, the moment he’d set foot in Abbotsbury Abbey. Even as the thought skittered through his fevered brain, a chill of frigid proportions rattled his frame. Pain, like a band of hot metal, squeezed his head. Grimacing, he probed his armpit, flinching at the tenderness. It was getting worse by the hour. He knew what was to come. He’d seen it.
Ralph touched the gouges on his cheek. Three in number, they’d been carved out by Dudley’s fingernails. Moments after they’d sought shelter in the abandoned church, the man had vomited and then collapsed. He’d flopped onto his back, eyes rolling back in his head, breath bubbling in his throat.
Ralph had made the mistake of trying to sit him up. That’s when he’d felt the swellings, large as chicken eggs and hard as stone, beneath Dudley’s arms. Dudley had reacted like a man possessed, clawing at Ralph’s face and screaming in untold agony. Even Ralph, in all his cruel dealings, had never heard such a harrowing sound.
He silenced it with his sword, which pierced Dudley’s heart and ended his suffering. Now, it seemed, the same fate awaited Ralph. He was not, however, about to die without exacting some revenge. Consequently, justice for Cristen would be meted out as soon as the witnesses had arrived. He’d left a clear enough trail and they were, no doubt, already on their way.
As a result of Ralph’s pending demise, Cristen St. Clair would have to pay a higher price than intended for her transgressions. After all, he was dying because of her. Had she not fled, he would not have pursued her to Abbotsbury.
Mercy was no longer an option. He wanted Turi to witness a final dispensing of justice. He wanted to see the look on the man’s face when he slit Cristen’s throat. With luck, Ralph’s own life would be similarly dispensed in revenge. Not a bad thing. The man would actually be doing him a favor.
A sudden wave of nausea made him grab for the horse’s mane. This cursed sickness continued to suck the substance from his limbs. Carrying Cristen back to his horse had taken a supreme effort and left him weak and exhausted.
He tried to shake the feverish fog from his mind. He only needed to hang on for a little longer. Where was the cursed trail? Had he passed it? There! An overgrown gap at the edge of the path. He tugged on the horse’s reins and veered off into the shaded cover of the forest. As he did so, a soft groan drifted into his ear. He glanced down to see Cristen’s eyelashes fluttering. She moaned.
“Hello, my dear,” Ralph said, a sudden surge of anticipation straightening the slouch in his back. “I’m so glad you’re awake.”
*
Cristen had been crouched beside the stream, washing the remainder of sleep from her eyes, when she’d heard the footfall behind her. At first, she’d assumed it was Turi’s reflection in the rippled water as he loomed up behind her. Then she’d seen him raise a hand, a hand that appeared to be grasping something.
Before she could move or speak, the hand descended. Cristen saw a brilliant flash of light.
And then darkness.
As consciousness returned, it brought nausea with it, made worse by the fact that the ground seemed to be moving. Nay, not the ground. Her. Belly down on a horse, she realized, moaning at the solid throb of pain that rattled her head.
“Hello, my dear. I’m so glad you’re awake.” A man’s voice. Smooth. Familiar. Evil.
Cristen’s blood all but turned to ice.
“Ralph,” she whispered, nostrils flaring as she smelled vomit. Had she been sick?
“Ah, you know who I am. Good. Your awareness of what is about to happen is important to me.”
What did he mean?
Ralph halted the horse and slid to the ground, staggering as he found his feet. Another horse, standing nearby, lifted its nose and blew a soft welcome.
Ralph tugged a dagger from his belt and hauled Cristen from the horse. With an arm locked around her neck, he dragged her toward an abandoned church.
“It’s nice to see you again, my lady,” he said. “I’m disappointed in you, though. You should not have run off like that. Did you really think we’d let you go so easily?”
Head still throbbing with pain, Cristen tried to cry out, managing only a gurgled moan. The image of a foggy night rose up in her mind – a night, not so long ago, when she had been similarly threatened.
“He’ll kill you,” she said, half-choking as he pulled her up the steps. “Turi will find you and kill you.”
“Aye, that’s what I’m hoping,” Ralph replied, stumbling over the threshold. “He’ll be doing me a favor.”
The comment rang with a horrible, nonchalant finality and a prickle of fear ran across Cristen’s body. This nightmare seemed to be possessed of an unexpected malevolence. Something about Ralph St. Clair – his demeanor, his actions, his voice – they were reckless somehow. Ralph St. Clair had always been calculating. Shrewd. Never reckless.
The stench of blood and vomit filled Cristen’s nostrils as they entered the church. Behind that lingered the dank smell of neglect. The subdued glow of candlelight did little to improve the inherent chill of the place.
“Dear God,” she mumbled, noticing the body on the floor. She recognized him as Ralph’s preferred knight. “What did you do to him?”
“Be quiet,” he said, breathing hard against her ear. He stumbled over something on the floor and Cristen let out a squeak. “I said, be quiet,” he repeated, setting the point of the blade against her ribs as he cocked an ear toward the door. “It appears we have company. Excellent. I’ve been expecting them.”
*
Turi rode on, leaning across Samson’s neck as he followed a single set of fresh hoof prints back along the trail. The self-addressed questions in his head, however, did not cease. He endeavored to ignore his rage, which festered within him like an unclean wound. And the guilt, too, a fresh supply that added to his usual burden and threatened to drag him down.
Instead, he clung on to a single thread of reason.
If Ralph St. Clair had taken Cristen, as he suspected, she’d still be alive. This was not a hunt to kill, but the search for a fugitive. An outlaw, who, in Ralph St. Clair’s eyes, needed to be brought to justice. If the man had merely wanted her dead, he’d have killed her on the spot. But the fact the assailant had acted alone continued to bother Turi. Oddly, he found himself hoping it was St. Clair who had her. At least he had some idea of the man’s motives.
The hoof prints led them back along their previous day’s route for a while. Then, without warning, they veered off to the right and disappeared down a wide but overgrown path. Turi pulled Samson to a halt and Gilbert reined in alongside, chest heaving.
Turi cursed, slid from the saddle and crouched down to examine the earth, fingers brushing an indentation in the dirt. Then he rose and looked along the overgrown trail. The grainy light of dawn had cleared and evidence of a recent disturbance was readily visible. A tingle ran over his scalp. “We’re close to whatever lies at the end of this trail. I prefer to lead the horses from here.”
“This is no deer path,” Gilbert said, dismounting. “’Tis man made, but little used, which would imply it leads to an abandoned building of some type.”
Turi gave the old man a respectful glance. “I agree. An old hunting lodge, perhaps. Or a grange.”
Surrounded by forest, the ruined chapel sat in a nest of brambles at the end of the track. Nature had already begun to claim what man had originally created. Thick grass hung over what few gravestones were still visible. Much of the thatched roof had sagged, drooping over the eaves like loose flesh. Ivy, leaves glossy and near-black, covered most of the walls and, it appeared, any existing windows. A plain, wooden cross, leaning precariously, still managed to cling to the rooftop above the door.
Two bay horses stood nearby, one tethered, one not. The untethered horse, still saddled and bridled, nickered softly and regarded Turi and Gilbert with interest. The door to the church hung askew on one hinge. Beyond it, the faint orange glow of candlelight indicated occupation. Turi had no doubt about who lingered within. Cristen was here. He felt her as keenly as he felt the air in his lungs. But why had only one horse been used in her abduction?
Obscure sounds drifted out of the doorway. A mumble and a scuffle, followed by a faint cry. Turi’s gut twisted as he and Gilbert exchanged glances. They drew swords and stepped forward.
Like invisible entities, the stench of vomit and blood welcomed them as they approached the threshold. Turi’s heart dropped to his stomach, his quick mind finding a new and dreadful reason for Ralph St. Clair’s solitary strike. Gilbert grimaced and inhaled audibly.
Wait here, Turi mouthed to him. Let me go first.
The old man hesitated for a heartbeat and then inclined his head, his expression grim. Sword raised and nostrils flaring, Turi slipped through the open door and squinted into the shadows.
At the far end of the small church, a fat candle burned atop a decrepit stone altar. It cast an eerie light over the ruinous state of the place. Turi glanced around, absorbing detail. A few broken sticks of furniture, evidence of several campfires, discarded animal bones. And, less than a stride away, the body of a man, eyes closed, tunic stained with blood and vomit.
Turi had already seen Cristen. He’d noticed her the moment he stepped into the place, but pretended otherwise. He needed a few moments to gauge the situation, figure out what game her captor was playing. But he no longer had any doubt about who had abducted her.
To the left of the altar, partly hidden by shadow, Ralph St. Clair had Cristen at his mercy, one arm holding her fast, the other pointing a dagger at her heart. Turi narrowed his eyes, absorbing every detail of the scene before him. Hair, damp with sweat, was cleaved to Ralph St. Clair’s skull. And his flesh glistened in the candlelight.
Turi bit back another wave of rage, this one aimed at himself. He cursed himself for his carelessness, for his failure to protect that which he valued above all else. Things were worse – far worse – than he’d realized. The pestilence they’d thought to leave behind had followed them.
The man would soon be joining his cohort in death. He’d be dead within days. Maybe hours. And Cristen…
Turi closed his mind to such thoughts. For now, he had to focus on getting her away from Ralph St. Clair. He knew her abduction was no longer St. Clair’s focus. It was merely a precursor to the final, vengeful act of a dying man who had nothing to lose. He intended to kill Cristen and wanted Turi to bear witness. The fact Cristen still lived indicated that St. Clair meant to prolong the moment. To taunt and test Turi’s patience. A mark of arrogance and self-surety.
Unwise.
Turi decided to test him in return. He raised his sword and took a single step forward. St. Clair lifted his lip and parted with a snarl.
“Stay where you are,” he said, hand tightening visibly on the dagger. “Any closer and the girl dies.”
Cristen’s face was tight with fear, but Turi had the distinct impression it was for him, rather than herself. The fury that had ignited his blood earlier still burned within. It infused his muscles and honed his senses. Turi ignored the man’s demand, twirled his sword, and took another step forward.
“Let the girl go, St. Clair.”
Ralph laughed and leered at Turi through glazed eyes. Turi wondered who, or what, had clawed the man’s face. Suspicion drew his eyes to the nearby corpse. Delirium, once it took possession of the mind, could turn men into demons. Ralph St. Clair had, no doubt, met with such a demon and it appeared the same now possessed him.
“I said, stay where you are, you bastard.” Ralph’s breath came in short, rasping gasps. “I’ll kill her rather than give her back to you. You’re here to bear witness to that.”
“He can’t go anywhere,” Gilbert whispered from the doorway. “He’s cornered.”
“He does not intend to run,” Turi replied with equal discretion. “He means to kill her. He knew I would come. If I make a move, he’ll use the blade. ’Tis the last, defiant stand of a man facing certain death.”
“I can hear you whispering,” St. Clair called out, “but you waste time plotting. You cannot best me.”
“Nay, I cannot,” Turi murmured. “Only Cristen can do that.”
“Cristen?” Gilbert’s bewilderment came through in his voice. “What do you mean?”
“How soon you forget, my lord.” Turi, his gaze still fixed on Ralph’s face, lowered his blade. “I just need to make her understand.”
And soon.
Every instinct told him Ralph’s sanity balanced on a razor’s edge. The dagger, held in the man’s white-knuckled hand, still hovered, point first, over Cristen’s ribs. One slip, a single upward thrust, and the blade would enter her heart.
You know what to do, Cristen. I showed you.
Turi dared to take another step forward.
Ralph St. Clair snarled again. “You don’t listen, do you? Tell me, Turi, if that is your real name, do you find her to be stiffer than your cock when you tup her? My brother said it was like bedding a corpse.”
Cristen whimpered and closed her eyes.
“Don’t try to fight him, lass,” Turi said, his voice clear and emphatic. “’Tis pointless to struggle. He’s stronger than you. You cannot hope to escape.”
Cristen’s eyes flew open. She stared at Turi for a moment, understanding dawning on her face like a sunrise. Turi inclined his head in a subtle affirmation.
Aye, that’s it, little bird. Fight him and then push back. Push back as hard as you can.
“Pay him no mind, Cristen.” Ralph sniffed and nuzzled her hair. “It excites me when you fight.”
As Turi watched, a light of determination arose in Cristen’s eyes. She let out a cry and struggled in St. Clair’s grasp, trying to pull herself free. Turi, one eye on the blade at her ribs, took a breath and released it. Then another. Aware of her gaze on him, and in mutual silence, Turi counted with her.
One, two, three…
She released the last breath on another hoarse cry of determination… and shoved back against her captor.
Hard.
A brief expression of shock flitted across Ralph St. Clair’s face as he lost his balance. Too late to counter the unexpected momentum, he toppled backwards like a felled tree and hit the ground with a solid thud. His head snapped back and slammed into the stone floor. Cristen, who had fallen with him, gave a sharp little gasp and rolled away, onto her side.
Turi flew across the space in little more than a heartbeat and set the point of his sword against the man’s chest. “Any last words, my lord?” he snarled.
“To Hell with that bitch,” Ralph said, his voice nasal. Then he gagged as a dark rivulet of blood flowed from one nostril and dribbled into his mouth.
“And to Hell with you, St. Clair.” Turi leaned on his sword and muttered an ancient curse as the blade sliced into Ralph St. Clair’s heart. Then, with a soft grunt, he clenched his jaw, twisted the hilt, and watched the light fade from Ralph St. Clair’s feverish eyes. “I did you a favor, you bastard,” Turi muttered, pulling the blade free.
“Turi.”
Something in Gilbert’s voice snagged his attention. Turi turned to see him kneeling beside Cristen, who had curled up like a child.
A chill settled between Turi’s shoulder blades as he stepped over Ralph’s body and crouched down. Cristen looked at him, eyes bright with love… and something else. He stroked her hair back from her face. “What is it, aderyn bach? Are you hurt?”
Gilbert held up Ralph St. Clair’s dagger in a trembling hand, the blade smeared with blood.
“She must have fallen on it,” he said. “I can see she’s bleeding, but, damn my eyes and this feeble light, I cannot tell how bad the wound is.”
Cristen gave Turi a weak smile. “It’s probably nothing,” she said, her hand seeking his. Turi’s throat tightened at the sight of the blood smeared on her fingers. “I’m so sorry, Turi. I should have waited for you.”
“I need to turn you,” he said, frowning at her apology. The blame was his. Entirely. “I need to see the wound.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said again.
Turi kissed her hand. “Nay, hush. It wasn’t your fault. Let me see this wound.”
With great care, he turned Cristen onto her back. Against the paler fabric of her robe, a bloodstain, the size of Turi’s hand, glistened wet and ominous.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” he said, hoping his deep-rooted fear didn’t show in his expression, “but I have to lift up your robe and take a closer look, all right?”
Gilbert squeezed Turi’s shoulder and rose to his feet. “I’m certain she’ll be fine,” he said. “She couldn’t be in safer hands. I’m going to check on the horses.”
Turi grunted a response and then eased Cristen’s robe up and over her hips. The small, gaping wound in her side resembled a lidless eye, weeping blood in a steady flow.
“Is it bad?” Cristen’s voice reflected the fear on her face.
“Not bad, little bird, no.” Not a lie. Turi had seen far worse. But he knew, should it fester, it could become deadly. He’d seen many a warrior, victorious in battle, subsequently defeated by a neglected injury. “But we need to stop the bleeding and treat the wound.”
“I can’t die yet, Turi.” Her hand sought his again. “I’ve only just found some happiness.”
Turi groaned and pressed a lingering kiss to her bloodstained palm. “You’re not going to die,” he said. “I won’t let you die.” Yet, the air, thick with the stench of death, seemed to mock his words.
He rose and shrugged off his tabard. Then he removed his shirt and folded it into a narrow strip, leaving the sleeves outstretched. Cristen winced as he slid the makeshift bandage beneath her body.
“A temporary measure,” he said as he bound her ribs. “It’ll help stem the bleeding. Are you injured anywhere else?”
“Only my head. It’s pounding like a hammer.” She managed a slight smile. “Ralph hit me with something when I was by the stream. I don’t know what.”
Turi frowned as he rearranged her clothing. “That’s what I thought, since I didn’t hear you cry out. Can you sit up? I want to take a look.”
She winced as Turi eased her upright. He ran gentle fingers over the back of her skull, frowning at her pallor. Even by candlelight, he could see it had gone from white to gray.
“A fine goose-egg, but no blood,” he murmured. Overcome by the events of the morning, Turi groaned and drew Cristen into his arms. For a few moments, he simply held her, soothed by her unique scent as he muttered a silent plea to the gods.
Please. Don’t take her.
“Ralph had the blue sickness, didn’t he?” Her question pulled a sigh from him.
“Aye,” he said, unable to lie, “he did. It doesn’t mean you will succumb to it, though.”
She sighed, her breath warm against his throat. “Don’t be afraid, Turi,” she whispered. “I told you. I’m never ill.”