Elisabeth Hobbes - The Saxon Outlaw's Revenge

He nodded solemnly. ‘Everywhere.’

‘Murderers, thieves and exiles. They had to crawl somewhere when our lords took their lands,’ Rollo added. ‘We’ll be at the bridge soon, then we can breathe easier.’

Constance eyed the deep forest nervously, half-expecting to see a figure lying in wait behind every tree. She fingered the dagger at her waist for reassurance and increased the pace a little.

The rough road followed the path of a stream that widened until the river was in full flow with snow melt. She searched for signs of familiarity in the rising hills, but there were none. Of course she had been in no condition to observe the scenery last time she had travelled this path. Insensible with pain in her back and head, bleeding and bruised, she had been borne on a litter to the convent in Brockley. Vomit rose in her throat at the memory and she almost turned the mare’s head to flee until she remembered her promise to Hugh. Continuing to Hamestan was the only way to secure her future and serve retribution on Robert.

As they neared the crossing Rollo swore. A cart had lost a wheel, spilling its load of logs across the bridge while the ragged hooded driver tried unsuccessfully to right it using a thick log as a lever. Rollo dismounted and began to bellow at the old man, presumably believing that would clear the obstruction.

‘We should help him clear the path,’ Constance said. ‘That will be quicker.’ And kinder, she did not say aloud.

She climbed down, pulling her stick from the pannier at her saddle, and began to walk forward. The monk dismounted and walked towards the bridge, leaving only the two guards mounted.

It was then the ambush occurred.

The cart driver swung upright with the log he was holding, catching Rollo under the chin. He went down like a felled tree. As Rollo hit the ground another man clambered from beneath the bridge, short sword in one hand and a heavy cudgel in the other. He was long limbed and lean, dressed in a rough brown tunic with a leather jerkin on top of that. A hood was pulled low, casting a shadow over his face.

‘Now!’ he cried.

The monk dropped to his knees in front of Constance.

‘Run, child,’ he said urgently, before he began to pray loudly.

Knowing she would get no true aid from him, Constance turned around in time to see a further three men also armed with swords and wooden staffs bursting from amid the trees. They hurled themselves at the mounted guards who kicked out, trying to beat their attackers off while they struggled to draw their swords. The cart driver who had felled Rollo had turned his attention to the monk. He was not as old or frail as Constance had first imagined. The monk offered no resistance when the man began roping his hands behind his back and only increased the volume of his prayers.

The air filled with cries of anger and exertion. The guards were pulled from their mounts, but had succeeded in drawing their weapons and began to return the blows they were dealt.

Stomach knotting, Constance staggered back against her horse. Running was futile. She was too slow and where would she go anyway? She crouched on the ground, trying to make herself as unobtrusive as possible against the mare’s legs.

The man from beneath the bridge had been kneeling beside Rollo. Seemingly satisfied that the bodyguard was no threat, he cleared the ground in a handful of strides. The guards would be no match when the odds were four against two.

But four against three...

As the hooded man passed her, Constance hurled her stick at his legs. It caught him a blow on the ankles and he tripped forward. He threw his arms out, recovering his footing almost instantly, and whipped his head round to see who had obstructed him. His hood slipped back and Constance caught a glimpse of his face, or at least the hair that flopped down to his neck and the wild, shaggy beard that covered his jaw. His blue eyes were strikingly bright amid the blond tangle and now they narrowed with fury as they regarded Constance.

‘There’s another over here!’ he shouted.

Cursing her own stupidity Constance pushed herself to her feet. The assailants had been so intent on capturing the guards they had overlooked her presence so to draw attention to it had been the height of foolishness. Now she was most probably going to die alongside the guards. She lurched sideways as her weaker leg sent her off balance, but threw herself in the direction of the woods. She aimed herself blindly at the thick undergrowth, her only hope being to find somewhere to hide. Before she had gone five paces a pair of hands seized her from behind.

‘No, you don’t, lad!’

The man she had tripped wrapped his arms tight around Constance’s waist, pinning her arms to her side. She threw her head back, trying to wrestle free, but his grip was unbreakable. His arms locked around her with a strength she had never before encountered and she felt herself lifted off the ground as easily as a child. She kicked and bucked wildly, but her resistance made no difference and she was carried back to the road.

Her captor threw her to her knees and cuffed her round the ear with the back of his hand. The blow wasn’t very hard, clearly intended as a warning rather than to cause injury, but nevertheless it set her head spinning. Once she had been hardened against such treatment, but now the violence came as a shock. She bit back tears. No man would weep at such a blow.

‘Stay still and you might live, boy,’ he growled, his accent curling oddly in Constance’s ears. Whoever he was his accent did not sound like the men of Cheshire.

The man trained his sword on Constance’s breast, hardly casting a glance at her face. Despite her terror Constance let out a long breath of relief. Her disguise had not been discovered. She tilted her head to try to see what was happening behind her. Her blood chilled. One guard lay dead, the other bravely stood his ground against three men, but even as she watched he was knocked to the ground and pinned on his belly by a foot in the back. The cart driver hauled the monk to kneel beside Constance as the nearest brigand began to hack at the straps holding the pannier containing Constance’s strongbox to the saddle.

‘Get the box quickly, Ulf,’ Constance’s captor said, speaking with an authority that confirmed what she had suspected—he was the leader. ‘I want to be gone before anyone else appears.’

He reached down and seized hold of her by the neck of her cloak, leaning his face into hers. Constance braced herself for discovery of her deception, but a roar of rage made them both start. At the river’s edge Rollo had clambered to his feet and was staggering towards Constance, blood smearing his lips and chin. She sobbed with relief, her terror abating slightly, but her optimism was short lived as her supposed saviour lumbered past them, knocking Constance aside as though she had not existed. He aimed instead for the two men who were freeing the small, iron-hinged box from its leather bindings.

Constance’s mouth fell open in shock and disbelief. The bodyguard was supposed to protect her above all else. Rollo drew his weapon as he ran. Constance’s captor let go of her cloak, closing the distance between himself and Rollo with a bellow of warning, but he was too late. With a cry Rollo thrust his sword straight between the shoulder blades of the nearest man, who buckled at the knees, falling forward. With a speed that stopped the breath in Constance’s throat the hooded man twisted round. He had his weapon raised by the time he completed the turn but before he could reach Rollo the cart driver had pushed the monk aside and planted his own weapon deep in Rollo’s back, twisting viciously.

With a grunt Rollo fell forward, landing almost on top of his victim. The cart driver fell to his knees beside the bodies and gave a keening sob of anguish.