Sharon Schulze - To Tame A Warrior's Heart

If only Catrin had minded her own business he would be lord and master of l’Eau Clair now, a powerful Marcher lord. His noble cousin Llywelyn—even King John of England himself—would have danced to his tune. The beautiful Lady Gillian would be his bride, although that didn’t seem such a prize now that he’d come to know her better.

Still, to hold l’Eau Clair within his grasp would be more than sufficient to compensate for her willfulness.

And he’d have shown her who was master soon enough.

Catrin had ruined it all with her concern for Gillian. “I’ve heard that my dear cousin has come to stay with you,” she’d said after Huw had stolen Gillian from her own keep and brought her to Bryn Du. “You must let me visit her.”

He’d had no choice but to allow Catrin to see Gillian, not without rousing her suspicions. He’d known Catrin was a bold, daring wench, but he’d never have suspected her to be in league with Rannulf FitzClifford. She hated Normans!

“She is ill, Steffan—let me bring a physician to examine her,” she’d offered.

Ill! The perfidious bitch wasn’t ill.

She was pregnant with another man’s child.

He’d have taken Gillian to wife as soon as she’d been rid of her bastard.

Indeed, he’d planned to free her of the Norman whelp sullying her womb as soon as possible.

But Catrin’s “physician” had been Gillian’s lover, FitzClifford. They’d wrested her from him and spirited her away from Bryn Du. His dear kinswoman Catrin, allied with the Normans to spoil his plans.

Nay, his destiny.

With their royal blood combined, he and Gillian would have been equal to—nay, superior to—anyone in Wales.

Even Prince Llywelyn himself.

Catrin had done him ill so often, she could never make it up to him. Could he but get her into his grasp, however, he’d derive some recompense.

And by Christ, he’d enjoy it!

Catrin still lived, he could feel it. He’d know, somehow, if she were gone.

And if those fools could not bring her to him, he’d go out and find her himself.

Ralph and his men pushed their scraggly mounts until Bryn Du was little more than a blur against the sky. He couldn’t help but yearn for the smooth-gaited steed he’d taken from the Norman knight. Every bone-jarring jolt of the mount beneath him served to remind him how unprofitable this venture had proven thus far. Lord Steffan wouldn’t pay them; he’d seen that clear as day in the arrogant bastard’s face. And since it wasn’t easy to dispose of stolen goods, they weren’t likely to get anywhere near the real value of the items.

They stopped alongside a rushing stream. Ralph dismounted and stood for a moment with head bent, pondering what to do. It wouldn’t do to show a mite of weakness, else he’d be dead in no time.

“What do we do now?” Will asked. He hopped down from the saddle with surprising vigor considering how hard Lord Steffan had hit him. “I say we go back and try for the money again,” he added, fingers caressing the knife at his waist. “I’d like to sink my blade into that strutting cock.”

“Get yourself killed, more like,” Ralph told him. He bent and scooped water over his head—all he could do to cool his anger for now. “Here, Will, come stick your head in the water—your nose is still dripping blood. Mayhap the cold’ll put some sense in your noggin.”

Diccon knelt beside them, pausing to drink before offering his opinion. “I’d like to make that weasel pay. All the work we did, and he won’t pay.” He shook his head. “Can’t trust no one.”

Ralph settled back against a tree and nibbled on a dry crust while Diccon and Will bandied plots back and forth. ’Twas best to let them go on until they ran out of ideas—it wouldn’t take long. It was comfortable here in the forest, and he wasn’t in any hurry to leave.

A rustling in the bushes caught his attention. Will and Diccon bickered on, their voices masking his movements as he rose and slipped into the brush.

The spy never had a chance to cry out. Ralph wrapped his arm about the young man’s neck and stuffed a cloth into his mouth, then lashed his wrists together with a piece of rope.

Ralph dragged the youth by the tunic through the underbrush and shoved him to the ground at Will’s feet.

“Where did he come from?” Diccon asked as he whipped his dagger from his belt.

“Found him in the bushes there.” Ralph removed his prisoner’s knife from its scabbard and pointed the blade toward the path they’d made through the brush. “Spying on us. Will, go find his horse—and have a care, in case he brought company.”

Ralph nudged the youth onto his back and twitched out the gag. Eyes fixed upon Ralph’s misshapen hand, he gulped for breath. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked, voice faint.

“Depends on why you were watching us. Don’t suppose you’d care to tell me?” Ralph grinned in a friendly manner, though he kept the dagger in plain sight.

“My—my name’s Prys. I’m nobody important,” he stammered. “A poor farmer—”

Ralph turned Prys’s hands palm up. No farmer had hands that pale and soft. “I doubt it.” At the sound of muffled hoofbeats he turned and watched Will lead a saddled horse into the clearing. “And no farmer would own so fine a beast.”

Now that he thought about it, Ralph could see that his captive’s clothing looked like livery. He pressed the knife against Prys’s throat. “Did you follow us from Bryn Du?” he growled.

Prys trembled, but made no reply.

Ralph shoved the blade harder, until blood seeped from the shallow cut. “Answer me.”

“Huw said to follow you,” Prys replied quickly. “See where you went. Lord Steff—” The word ended in a croak. Ralph eased up on the blade and Prys tried again. “Wants to know where the woman is.”

Ralph moved the knife and sat back on his heels, allowing Prys to wriggle away from him. “I know nothing else, I swear! I only came because Huw made me. Let me join you,” he pleaded. “I can’t go back now. They’ll kill me.”

Will stepped closer. “’Tis a good idea, Ralph. We need more men.”

“Aye, Ralph,” Diccon piped up. “Lord Steffan’d never know. ‘Sides, he owes us—since he won’t give us our money, we’ll take his servant.”

Hope brightened Prys’s wan face, but Ralph refused to be swayed. Leaning forward, he grasped the youth by the shoulder. “Sorry, lad,” he said as he plunged the dagger to the hilt

“Ralph,” Will gasped, mouth flapping. “What did you do that for?”

“Are you mad?” Ralph asked. He wiped the blade against Prys’s tunic, then stood and dragged the body into the bushes. “What if he went back to Bryn Du once he knew what really happened to the woman? Could be that Lord Steffan ordered him to find a way to join our band. ’Tisn’t a risk I wanted to take.”

He’d had enough of this, and these fools. “Come on—time to go. We’ve lingered here too long.” His movements jerky, he untied his horse and swung into the saddle, then snatched the reins of Prys’s mount from Will’s grasp. “This has been nothin’ but trouble from the start,” he said with disgust. “Least we’ve got the loot from the ambush. Should be worth somethin’.”

Not bothering to wait until Diccon and Will mounted up, Ralph urged the horses along. “On to Chester. I never want to see this benighted place again.”

Saint Winifred save her—vermin had nested in her mouth. Catrin tried to swallow, but her mouth and throat felt dry as dust, and it seemed her tongue had swollen to at least twice its usual size.

Fiery heat scorched her side and imps stabbed at her with tiny pitchforks.