Chapter Five

 

Night was fast approaching as the weary warriors called a halt to their travel. Despite the day of rain, dusk fell softly, a nuance of deep violet and crimson skimmed the horizon and cleared the remaining clouds from the sky, scattering them on the whispered breezes of the wind. At the edge of a thick copse of trees, they drew rein.

Damon scanned the surroundings and took note of the area that would be their refuge for the night. There was dense foliage with which they could hide their horses and the visibility of a fire would be difficult to discern through the thick bushes and leafy branches of oaks. To the north lay the open plain with its knee-high grasses that swayed their muted gold stalks in the evening’s breeze. To the left, cutting through the center of the forest, was a small stream, its rolling bubbles quietly beckoning the thirst of man and horse alike. The air was cool, slight moisture lingering in the sunset. The rich scent of earth clung in the air, wheat fields and honeysuckle mingling in the fading sunlight.

All around, a quiet simplicity settled with the sun, crickets chirping, warblers and cuckoos singing a salute to the coming evening. Darkness became the reprieve that was desperately needed. Taking in the serenity of the surroundings and the facade of safety it represented, Damon dismounted, leading Fallon in the direction of the water’s edge. “Sedrick!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the silence like a roll of passing thunder.

“Aye, milord,” Sedrick replied, quickly walking his horse in Damon’s wake.

“You and Sir Richard shall have first watch, search the area and take up your posts, one near the stream and the other at the forest’s edge. This journey back to Woodmir may seem a quiet one to be sure, but there may be stragglers from the raid at Baldock, and I’m not willing to take any chances.”

“Aye, milord,” Sedrick replied hastily. “I shall notify Sir Richard at once.”

Damon gathered Fallon’s reins and led the horse towards the softly rolling stream, his dark reflection glistening in the water’s surface. Several days’ growth of beard marred his haggard features, and his eyes matched the glint of moonlight that was just appearing through the fraying clouds. Scooping the cool water and cleansing his face, he noted the lines of weariness that had crept in around his eyes.

Nudging his shoulder, Fallon whinnied. The big animal appeared as weary as his master. Damon stroked the horse’s neck as he brought it to the water’s edge and softly spoke words of comfort and appreciation to the stallion. His men would be able to hunt this night, and all would appreciate the game. The thought of meat, no matter how paltry the fare, compared to the stale husks of bread and partially moldy rounds of cheese that had sustained them thus far, were a welcome thought.

Kneeling by the water’s edge, Damon heard Tanak leading his own horse to the edge of the stream. His Arabian was not the large muscled beasts that the Norman’s rode, but a sleek white mare with gentle strength and great agility.

“You are very quiet this night, my friend,” Tanak knowingly remarked, his black cloak thrown over his shoulder, blending in with the night, his dark eyes scanning his friend’s brooding countenance.

“Aye. It would seem this endless battle eats away my very soul.” He bent again to drink the cool, clear water. “We may have put down a large number of these rebels, but this battle is not yet ended. As long as there are Saxons still willing to defy William as their true and rightful King, there will be pockets of resistance. We must find an end to this treachery and destroy all those responsible.” His brow furrowed. “Which somehow always brings me back to my family. My instincts tell me that this battle is somehow very personal, yet I know not who would do such a thing or why”.

His own eyes narrowing in consideration, Tanak replied, “We must carefully weigh the whos and whys.” His voice held the wise tone of a prophet. “The viper cannot hide in the grass forever, my friend. Eventually he will try to strike, and when he does, you will be waiting. Then you shall have your answers and your revenge.”

A shrill shriek brought Damon’s head up. He and Tanak turned to face each other, the same look of consternation appearing on their faces. Damon rose from the water’s edge as Sedrick rode hard into the camp.

“Milord,” he breathlessly huffed, his horse dancing beneath him. “Tis a woman. Sir Richard has found her just beyond the forest edge.”

“Aye, Sedrick,” Daman replied sarcastically, a glint of annoyance briefly reflected in his eyes. “Tis no doubt that I heard a woman screeching, as well as half of England and any damn rebel crawling through this forest.” Grabbing Fallon’s reins he asked harshly, “What the hell is a woman doing out in the middle of nowhere?”

“I know not, milord,” Sedrick responded sheepishly. “She was unconscious when we found her. Sir Richard took the liberty of checking her for broken bones, but when she woke, she started screaming and fighting. Tis a wildcat he’s skirmishin’ with.”

Exchanging glances with Tanak and raising his brow, Damon laughed—an abrupt bray of sound. “Not many a maid would be found screaming with Sir Richard atop of them. Unless, of course, it were screams of pleasure, for the man does have his way with the maids. Show me,” he replied as he swung up onto his horse.

Just beyond the forest edge, in the field of tall yellow grasses and late summer wildflowers, Sir Richard’s horse could be seen grazing on the damp fertile tufts, silhouetted beneath the moon’s soft glow. It appeared that Richard, too, had disappeared from the plain for his body could not be seen.

Riding quickly to the scene, Damon could easily distinguish Sir Richard’s voice and that of the mysterious woman of the field. By the looks of things, he seemed to be grappling and swearing fiercely while struggling to remain atop of her. Slender arms and legs flailed wildly.

From the vantage point of his horse, Damon could see a small woman with deep auburn hair tangled about her head as its length spread out to entwine with the twigs and leaves that covered the grasses. She wore no gown like a lady should, but hose of some type, and boots to her knees. He could not see the rest of her attire, as Richard’s body hid her from view. He could, however, see her face, its pale, clear complexion set aglow by the muted light of the rising moon.

The only imperfection to her features that he could see was the cut on the side of her forehead where blood still flowed in rivulets down the side of her face and blended with the tangle of her riotous curls. She had a small upturned nose, rich full lips, high cheekbones and a small pert chin, her brow furrowed in aggravation as she struggled to be released. She was kicking and bucking like a wild stallion, her arms thrashing and fists clenched, and spewing obscenities like a drunken warrior in a tavern brawl.

“You filthy, smelly pig. Get the hell off me,” she grunted, arms flailing, trying to shake loose of Richard’s vice-like hold.

“Be still, mademoiselle, and I will not hurt you,” Richard replied, not quite gasping from the struggle.

“And pigs fly!” she retorted.

The sight was quite amusing to Damon, considering the number of maids that were known to throw themselves at the fair-haired Richard. He laughed in spite of himself. But wishing for the quiet to return, not just for the peace to his ears, but also for the safety of his men, he decided to call an end to the show.

“Cease,” he bellowed harshly. The moment his voice rang out, Richard stilled just long enough for a small, firm fist to connect with his jaw. He landed flat on his backside, giving her the opportunity to squeeze from beneath his body. She leapt to her feet and flipped her tangled hair from her eyes, and visibly paled as she took in her surroundings.

* * * * * *

What the hell! Her first thoughts returning to consciousness were of utter disbelief. Gabriella stood transfixed to the scene unfolding before her. Confusion and disbelief swept through her like a cold wind to a fevered brow. Armored men on horseback were not what she anticipated seeing when she opened her eyes.

She stood surrounded on all sides by massive horses and men equally as large. It felt as if the earth swayed beneath her. Quickly replaying her day in her mind, she couldn’t understand this turn of events. She had been in her car one moment and the next she was on her back, struggling to open her eyes and stop the spinning in her head. Her whole body ached, and her head hurt immensely. She visualized the car and the deer, then swerving and then…nothing but the sound of thunder on the grasses.

She must have hit her head harder than she first imagined. With chilled, shaking fingers, Gabriella touched her forehead and cringed, feeling the stickiness that clung there. She stared in disbelief at the blood, and still couldn’t make sense of the past few moments. The blood explained why her head hurt so damn badly, but it did not, however, explain the large, blond, crazy man who had sprawled on top of her and scared her half to death right when she opened her eyes.

Nor did it explain the men that were gathered around her now, their horses shuffling beneath them, their armor glinting in the shadowed light of the rising moon. They were all staring at her with stern, yet bemused looks of chagrin upon their faces. She thought she had heard someone bellowing something while she was rolling in the dirt with the burly blond guy, but she had no idea who said what. And the words…they had sounded vaguely like French in her mixed-up mind, but it was not the same language her father had taught her, not the language she’d studied briefly in college.

Her disbelief started her pacing. She zigzagged back and forth in a small circle as she looked up at the horses and then at the men. Over and over in her mind, the words this is so not happening continued to mock her. She would pace a little more, stop and look up at the men and horses again, shake her head and mutter to herself, then begin the progress anew.

She couldn’t help but feel like she had been set adrift from reality, a rabbit caught in headlights, a lamb before the wolves. This is so not real. I was in a car accident, I hit my head and I’m in a coma. That’s it! I’m in a coma and completely delusional! There is no other explanation.

The horses are not real, the armor encased men are not real and this whole damn situation is a figment of my overwrought imagination. The past weeks of anguish and suffering over my parents missing and possible deaths, the little old lady telling me stories of knights and castles and then to top it off, a car accident. This has obviously taken its toll on me. All this has completely messed up my mind. It’s no wonder I’m hallucinating. She clutched her head to stop its pounding.

* * * * * *

Damon watched the slight figure pace back in forth in front of them, as though oblivious to them all. The woman appeared addled in her head as she continued to rant and pace only stopping long enough to mutter some more, shake her head and start anew. He quietly dismounted and handed the reins to Richard, who had finally picked himself up off the ground.

He was still rubbing his chin as he took the horse’s reins and said, “Be careful, milord, the tiny creature packs a wallop.” There was a gleam of mischief sparkling in his eyes and a crooked smile touched his lips.

Damon raised a brow, turned and looked towards his quarry. When she finally ceased to pace, she stopped a few yards directly in front of him, looked up and his heart stopped beating as a rush of desire coursed through his veins.

Her eyes were a green so deep as to be the envy of any emerald or lush field in the peak of springtime. Her slight brows arched softly above eyes evenly spaced. He had already taken note of her small turned-up nose and pert chin, lips the color of berries, the top lip being a bow of perfection and the bottom slightly fuller than the top. From this distance, he could see that they were lips that begged to be kissed.

She had hair that was warm mahogany and flowed freely down her back in luscious waves, beckoning a man’s fingers to lose themselves in their vibrant curls. His hands tingled with the need to reach out and claim her. Madness, his mind whispered as he stood spellbound.

She wore a shawl-like tunic made of woven yarn in shades of green and black, all blending and swirling together so that if she stood within the darkened woods, she would not be easily seen by an unkeen eye. Her long shapely legs were quite discernible in her dark hose and knee-high boots that encased the slender appendages.

She was dressed as a lad, yet her features appeared soft and fragile. The innocence of her beauty was such that she could be mistaken for a young girl, but her womanly curves dissolved the facade. Quite simply, she was the most beguiling creature he had ever seen. A woodland sprite come to life.

Though he himself was no stranger to the charms and wiles of women—from the experienced courtier to the farm lass or the tavern whore—he had never met one that so completely took his breath away.

Despite the desire that flowed through him, his warrior instincts took over, clearing the fog of lust from his brain. It was a mind-suspending fog that had rooted him where he stood as he gazed upon her perfection. Hazily his thoughts cleared and forced a multitude of questions to course through his mind. Questions that I will damn well have answered, he told himself sharply.

Crossing his arms over his chest and putting a stern look upon his face, he crossly ordered, “Demoiselle, cease your ravings!” Quickly, he battered her with all the questions that were rolling through his mind as though sea spray crashing upon the rocks. “What business are you about, and how did you come to be here? Where is your husband or father, or your horse or wagon for that matter?”

* * * * * *

Gabriella’s head snapped up at his questions; shock, pure and unrestrained, flowed through, freezing the blood within her veins. His words seemed rough, almost archaic as her mind leapt, trying to translate. His French was old, slightly unrefined to her ears; it took several attempts to make the words clear in her head. She couldn’t breathe, move or speak. The man who stood so tall and regal in front of her was so remarkably handsome that all coherent thoughts left her brain completely. She felt as though her brain had turned to Jell-O and slithered around in the bowl of her head.

His deep voice vibrated authority, his words reverberating through her. Staring up at him with awe, her eyes grazed over his features. He was well over six feet in height, and his tall, lean stance demanded attention. His voice, a deep rich baritone, flowed through her and bespoke of his power and authority.

Large arms crossed a wide chest that was covered in armor and his long, dark, softly curling, raven-black hair swept over the edges of his shoulders. He wore no helmet so his features were clearly marked. He had a strong, square chin that showed several days’ growth of beard, adding to his ruggedness. High, rigid cheekbones and a patriarch nose helped to emphasize his handsome features. His eyes, an intense shade of gray like a winter storm in full tempest, stared back at her with what appeared to be contempt, causing her to take a step back away from him. Brooding malevolence poured from him in waves. He was moodily handsome; there was no doubt about it.

She knew she had to run.

Quietly, in the Saxon language, he said, “Do not do it, demoiselle. You will be unable to flee, and will only cause yourself more harm.”

His voice was soft, yet still demanding; annoyance and command entwined as one. Still, Gabriella knew she could not stand and debate things with him. There was no chance this side of a frigid winter in hell that she was willing to admit to herself that this was no dream.

Quietly, in the back of her mind, her conscience pricked. Maybe there was a small possibility that this was real. And, if it were real, then she was in serious trouble. Shaking her head to dispel her wayward thoughts, she looked around at the warriors surrounding her.

They were covered in dirt and what appeared to be blood. Some were still in armor, and others wore shirts beneath mail of steel. They all carried huge swords and shields that were half her size. Remarkably, their attire and weaponry all looked real to her studious mind. Images of the weapons of her studies flashed through her confused mind. She gauged her options quickly and decided that she would be safer away from all of this, and hopefully, she would eventually be able to make some sense of it, if she could get away.

This has to be some sort of reenactment, her frazzled mind feebly told her, and these men have to be actors playing some part in a Renaissance show. Clinging to this version of reality, she told herself that there must be a town close by, and that if she could get to it, then she could find a phone or a cop. Something or someone that could help make sense out of this ridiculous nightmare.

Once more, she looked from the immense, deeply handsome warrior who stood planted like an oak before her, to the men surrounding her. Decision made, she turned and ran, hoping that she would be able to step between the horses and flee to safety.

The warrior shook his head, muttered a curse and took a step to halt her flight. Another man quickly dismounted, landing soundlessly as he stepped in front of her, reaching for her. She dogged him, turning at the last second. Looking over her shoulder as she ran, she forgot where the warrior was and in her fear and folly, she ran straight into his chest. He quickly grabbed her in a vise-like grip, pulling her against him.

Gabriella looked up into those steel gray eyes, felt the wall of his large chest press against her, felt the strength of his fingers as they curled around her arms and, in that instant, knew fear so intense that it shook her to the core. However, mixed with that fear was the tingling sensation of desire, unknown, untried, with an intensity she had never felt. Her breath caught as she whispered a silent plea for release right before the world swam across her vision, her legs buckled and she collapsed into his arms.