Stolen Heiress

Diggory was dispatched and, sooner than expected, returned with the Frenchman and Silas Whitcome. Piers cheerfully brandished a brace of pigeons and the company sat on the earth floor near the fire near Rob’s stool while Margery plucked and prepared the pigeons for the cooking pot. Rob spelt out his proposed ambush and Piers Martine reflectively fingered a gold hoop which danged from one torn ear.

‘’Ow many men do you think there now are?’ he questioned Sym. The lanky shock-haired man-at-arms shook his head, pursed his lips, looked to his brother for confirmation and ventured an opinion.

‘I’d say no more ’n ten, possibly fewer.’

‘With Sir Gilbert, who is presumably a skilled fighting man, that is almost two to one, mon ami.’

Rob nodded in agreement, ‘But an unexpected ambush—’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I owe this to my father’s memory and to Walter. If I could take Sir Gilbert and hold him for ransom, I could recoup some of our losses.’

‘I’d do more ’n ’old ’im for ransom,’ growled Sym.

‘I agree entirely,’ Rob said smoothly, ‘but in these matters you have to do what is best. We need ready gold and Sir Gilbert could provide it.’

‘And for how long do you intend to lie about here, waiting to be caught?’ demanded Margery sourly. She made no bones about arguing with Master Rob.

Rob smiled again in her direction. ‘There is a risk, certainly,’ he acknowledged evenly, ‘but I consider it worth the taking. We can demand that Sir Gilbert send to his own manor, which is not too far away, while we hold him and any of his men who survive the attack. He can hardly inform on us and this hiding place has served us well up to now. How fast was he travelling?’ he asked Sym. ‘Can we cut through the woods to get ahead of him?’

‘Aye, Master Rob. The company was travelling slow, loaded down with two sumpters and one maid or p’raps a wounded man riding pillion, I didn’t stop to look too closely.’

Rob rose to his feet. ‘Then the sooner we are on his track, the better.’

Piers eyed him thoughtfully, ‘Mon ami, should you not…?’

His voice trailed off as he met the full scornful gaze of those blue-green eyes. He shrugged philosphically. ‘So be it, messire. We ’ave nevaire been afraid of taking the risks before, n’est ce pas?’

Despite her protests, Margery was left behind to tend their dinner and the little party set off led by Diggory, who, true to his brother’s word, was a fine woodsman and knew his way. Rob cursed his bad leg for the first half-mile—it had stiffened over the last few days due to enforced inactivity—but as they continued he found himself walking and even running over difficult ground more easily and well able to keep up with his men.

Diggory, ahead, stopped, keeping his head lowered, and signalled that they were now getting close to the road. Rob turned and cautioned his men with a gesture to silence and warily and quietly approached to squat behind Diggory.

They were now able to see clearly from cover the road to Brinklow Village. Diggory turned slightly as both of them heard the sound of considerable number of horsemen approaching. Rob turned and signalled again to his men. Silently, without the need for further instruction, they rose from their crouched positions and began to position themselves for ambush.

Sym and Diggory Fletcher, both fine archers, began to look to their long bows. Silas Whitcome and Piers Martine had both been with Rob for some time in service, both in London and Calais. Each was preparing himself for combat in his own way. Silas was easing his sword in its scabbard as Rob was his own weapon.

The Frenchmen had already found himself a suitable tree and sat astride a branch, giving him an excellent view of the road while still affording him some measure of bare branches for cover. His own deadly crossbow was ready for action.

The company of horsemen came steadily on. Rob could hear one female voice chattering on and judged Sym had been right in assuming it was a maidservant who was riding pillion. His whole body was tensed now, ready for action and, deliberately, he quietened his breathing. It was essential that each man of his company performed now to the best of his ability and experience.

He trusted all of them. The Frenchman was a fighting machine in his own right and Silas was steady and careful, not one to rush into danger without conscious thought. The Fletchers he had not seen in action recently, but knew they were experienced men-at-arms of his father’s company; he relied on them to do well in this coming engagement.

The first two men of the advancing escort were in sight now and Rob saw Diggory rise and nock his first arrow. He did not wait for orders. He knew well enough it was necessary for the company to come further into range before dispatching his fatal feathered missile.

Rob was waiting, half-stooped, his back hand ready to signal a message to Sym and Silas behind him. Piers, he knew, had a very clear view and, like Diggory, would take his own time.

The Hoyland escort came on, riding two by two. He could see the cold winter light glinting on their metal salets and the devices on their leather jacks were easily recognisable. He breathed a sigh of relief. It would not do to attack some other poor unsuspecting wight on the road going innocently about his business.

Behind the first two came one of the sumpter mules Diggory had spoken of and a single man-at-arms, with a woman clutching anxiously at his waist riding pillion. Rob cursed under his breath as he saw her. He would have preferred the wench to have been riding at the rear of the escort with the other mule he could see. He had no wish to see her fall victim to an arrow but, already, Diggory had loosed off his first shot.

The leading man, presumably the sergeant, gave a half-cry and fell forward over his horse’s head. The beast rose, forelegs in the air, whinnying in sudden panic, and reared across the path of the fellow who rode beside him.

The man bellowed a warning shout to those of his company behind and inexpertly tried to extricate his own mount from the oncoming hoofs of his erstwhile partner’s mount.

Pandemonium broke out in an instant. Arrows flew from cover and two other men screamed and fell. The road was now blocked by a company of plunging mounts and the noise of panicked bellows from those still in the saddle. It took only moments for Rob to establish control of the situation. He had only to emerge from cover, dash into the road and seize the reins of one of the plunging, frenzied horses, pulling the beast to a standstill.

He called a crisp, decisive command to the remaining men-at-arms to surrender.

‘Throw down your arms and dismount. You are my prisoners. My men have you all well in their sights.’

All of his men but Piers, who remained at his vantage point in the tree, emerged from cover and stood, bows full-stretched, threateningly. Silas had already dashed up to another of the men who gave signs of giving further trouble and neatly held his sword too close to the fellow’s throat.

A woman’s voice broke across the confused chaos. ‘Desist. There is no point in dooming yourselves. This outlaw robber has the upper hand. I’d have no more blood spilt on my behalf in a vain attempt to protect me.’

Rob looked up, startled to see that the palfrey which was bucking under his hand on the reins was carrying Mistress Clare Hoyland.

She leaned down to try and soothe her frightened mount with a reassuring pat and, recognising Rob immediately, said coldly, ‘I see you have so far escaped the King’s justice, Master Devane. Very fortunate for you, less lucky for my escort.’

The horse quietened as she spoke to it soothingly and Rob relaxed his tight grip on the rein and gave her a mocking half-bow. Behind them the men of her escort were sullenly obeying him and dismounting. Silas was efficiently collecting up their discarded weapons. Three men still lay on the ground, one very still and two others groaning and cursing from the pain of arrow wounds.

The woman mounted pillion was screaming shrilly and hysterically beating away the hands of the soldier behind whom she’d been riding as he vainly attempted to lift her down from the saddle.

‘Bridget, be quiet,’ Mistress Hoyland snapped. ‘You cannot be hurt badly, if at all, to be able to scream like that.’

She herself remained mounted, proudly looking down at her attacker.

Silas sidled up to Rob, carrying his toll of weapons, swords and daggers.

‘There’s no sign of Sir Gilbert Hoyland,’ he murmured hoarsely. ‘It looks like he isn’t in the company.’

Rob cursed beneath his breath and turned to the girl, seemingly unafraid, who managed her palfrey skilfully despite its continued nervous sidling. She was dressed in mourning in a black fur-lined frieze cloak, suitable for travelling, and her black hood, drawn up against the winter chill, covered her simple white linen coif.

He said, his ill temper mounting at the unexpected turn of events, hardening his tone, ‘Where is your uncle, mistress?’

Her shoulders rose and fell only slightly. ‘He is on his way to London, sir, though why his whereabouts should concern you, I have no idea.’

His blue eyes were staring at her accusingly. ‘He left you to travel without his protection?’

Her chin lifted a trifle. ‘He accompanied me as far as Lutterworth and then took the Watling Street road to London.’ She hesitated for a fraction of a moment then, feeling she needed to make some excuse for her uncle’s conduct, added, ‘I understand he had urgent business at Westminster.’

‘Here’s a pretty pickle,’ Silas murmured at Rob’s ear. ‘What do we do now? Do you want me to deal with the rest of the escort? Master Rob, we should be moving off the road.’

Rob nodded in irritation. His gaze passed to the little knot of defeated Hoyland men-at-arms who had gathered defensively close together and were clearly concerned about their own fate. As yet they had made no attempt to go to the help of their injured comrades.

Rob waved a hand towards Diggory and Sym who were still mounting guard over the prisoners.

‘Get them into the wood. Is that fellow dead?’ He looked dispassionately at the still figure of the sergeant in the roadway.

‘Aye, Master Rob, it would seem so.’ Sym’s voice revealed no hint of sympathy for the victim. There had been too many dead men left to rot at the Devane manor.

‘Well, get the body into the wood and bury it. I know the ground is hard but do your best, cover it with brush-wood if necessary. Secure the horses and pinion the wrists of those prisoners on their feet, but first let them tend to their wounded.’

His hand was still holding the palfrey’s leading rein and he made to draw the horse under the cover of the trees.

Clare addressed him coldly. ‘I trust, sir, that you don’t intend to butcher my unarmed men or me?’

He swung to face her and she saw that his expression was granite set.

‘If my men did so, mistress, I could not find it in my heart to blame them. Men died in plenty at my manor, aye, and women, too, some most unpleasantly.’

He saw her grey eyes widen and a shadow of fear crossed her proud face. The maid, now on foot and gripping tightly to the panier on one of the sumpters, gave another shrill scream which was instantly halted as her mistress turned her imperious gaze upon her once more.

Clare did not resist as he led her horse under cover some quarter of a mile into the wood where woodsmen had fashioned a clearing.

He held up his arms commandingly to lift her down. For the length of a heartbeat he thought she would refuse to obey, then she allowed herself to be lowered to the ground and moved a fraction from him. Diggory had brought up the struggling maid who, once he released her, ran, panting and sobbing, to her mistress’s side and clutched desperately at her cloak.

‘Mistress Clare,’ she gulped. ‘Oh, Mistress Clare, whatever is to become of us?’

‘I do not know,’ Clare replied woodenly, ‘but I do know it will not improve our prospects for you to continue to give trouble and cry like that.’

The wounded had been conveyed into the clearing by the survivors and laid down upon the grass. Without seeking permission from Rob, Clare went instantly to them and knelt by them. She made a perfunctory examination, then said quietly, ‘They do not appear to be too gravely hurt. None of the arrows have damaged vital organs, but they should not be left long in this bitter cold without help. I ask you again, sir, what are you going to do with us? I understand, from your question earlier, it was my uncle you sought.’

‘It was indeed, mistress. He and your brother were responsible for the raid on my manor and, since Sir Peter is dead and cannot be called to account, Sir Gilbert alone must answer to me for his actions.’

‘Then you will let us proceed on our way to Coventry?’

‘Coventry?’ He raised one eyebrow in surprise. ‘You go to join the Court at Coventry? Was that in hope of seeing me hang, Mistress Hoyland?’

‘It certainly was not, sir. I was already well aware of your escape and I thanked God for it. As you have said, too many men died in that fruitless attack on your home and I would not have had your name added to the list, whatever your crimes against the King’s Grace.’

He was leaning against a tree bole, watching her as she still knelt by the wounded men. He was silent for a moment then he said, ‘You are right when you say too many men have died, but there is still a debt to be paid. You understand that?’

She rose to her feet and calmly dusted herself down. ‘These injured men are hardly responsible, Master Devane. They did but obey orders even if these men, personally, were involved in the raid.’

‘Naturally. I hold the Hoylands responsible.’

He saw her wince at the implication but still she showed no fear.

Rob turned to Piers who had come up, soft-footed as a cat, as usual.

‘We shall not want to be hampered by these men. If we take the horses as planned I think we can allow them to remain here.’

‘Pinioned?’

Rob hesitated. ‘Mistress Hoyland warns me of the danger to them of leaving them tied here in these bitter conditions, particularly the wounded men. When we have left, they can seek help for their injured companions in Brinklow. They will be on foot and unable to pursue us.’ He turned and whispered so that Mistress Hoyland could not overhear him. ‘They cannot know of our hiding place.’

‘And the women, mon ami? Since Sir Gilbert is not here—the demoiselle would bring a considerable ransom in his stead, n’est ce pas?’

Rob turned and regarded her slowly. He could tell by the very rigidity of her stance that she was struggling to maintain a semblance of courage. She lifted one hand to push back a lock of brown hair, which had come loose from its pins when she had stooped to see the wounded men. He rubbed one side of his nose thoughtfully.

‘We’ll take her to the hut,’ he said at last, ‘and consider, later, what is best to be done.’

‘Did I hear the demoiselle say she was bound for the Court of le roi in Coventry?’

‘You did.’

‘Then, mon ami, naturellement, a courier will have been sent in advance to announce her arrival. She will be sought for—assiduously—is that not how you say it?’

Rob grimaced ruefully. ‘Doubtless she will, especially when the men have reported her disappearance, that is.’ He gave a slow smile. ‘I think, Piers, these men will not be anxious to return to their service. Sir Gilbert Hoyland is no man to cross, I am sure, and will deal harshly with any he deems to be inefficient or to lack courage. These fellows will know well enough they will be blamed. I think I can guarantee they will disappear into the countryside. I can only hope they take their injured companions with them. This will give us a breathing space.’

Piers shrugged and looked towards the tethered horses. Left to his own devices, he would have made very sure there was no pursuit, but Messire Robert Devane was often unpredictable and prone to unfortunate scruples.

He moved off to see that the prisoners were informed what was to happen to them. They were all young, the dead sergeant being, apparently, the only experienced man in the company. Piers Martine considered Sir Gilbert Hoyland a fool to have trusted his niece to such an undisciplined rabble.

Clare Hoyland drew a hard breath and marched up to her captor. It had to be faced. She needed to know her fate—now.

‘I demand to know, sir, when you will release me?’

He narrowed his eyes and she saw his lips tighten. His was such a normally genial countenance that she was chilled by the sight and stepped back a little.

‘Certainly not yet, mistress,’ he said brutally.

‘But you said—it was my uncle you expected…’

‘It was, but you, too, are a Hoyland.’

She gave a sharp exclamation. ‘You intend to hold me prisoner?’

‘You have guessed it, mistress.’

‘You will hold me for ransom? But, my uncle…’

‘Will pay it gladly,’ he mocked her. ‘I have not yet decided, mistress, but, for the present, you will come with us and without protest.’ He glanced towards the band of prisoners. ‘If you resist, it may rouse some core of chivalry in those youngsters there and I am sure you realise that could only end in their deaths.’

She inclined her chin and her single word was a trifle breathy. ‘Yes.’

He turned from her. ‘Then that is settled.’

She called back to him. ‘Sir?’

‘Madam?’

‘You intend to let the men go free?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you let my maid go? She will only hinder us and—and she will prove difficult to handle.’

His eyebrows rose again in some amusement.

‘You would go with us unchaperoned?’

Colour flooded her face, now pale with suppressed fear.

‘For her good—yes, and—’ it came out in a rush ‘—if you mean me harm or—humiliation—I do not think her presence would deter you.’

He threw back his head and the laugh echoed in the little clearing.

‘You read the situation correctly indeed, Mistress Hoyland.’

He looked towards the maid who was still hysterical with fear. Certainly the girl would be of little use to her mistress in her present state.

‘Yes, she may go, but I hope and trust she will fare better with those of your men than she would have cause to fear mine.’

‘She will have to take that chance,’ Clare said evenly.

He moved from her then to give orders for their departure and she went to the frightened girl.

‘Bridget, you are to go with those men to the nearest inn at Brinklow. I do not think they will harm you. They fear Sir Gilbert’s anger too much.’ She drew a swift breath. ‘At least I believe you will be safer with them. These ruffians cannot be trusted.’

‘But you, mistress?’ Bridget’s lips rounded into an ‘o’ of shocked horror. ‘I should not leave you.’

Clare forced a confident smile. ‘I do not think I am in any real danger. Master Devane, for all his piratical ways, is a gentleman. We must hope and pray that that is the case. In all events it would do no good for both of us to be endangered and I can trust you to raise the alarm. I do not know where I am to be taken, but my uncle’s men must be alerted and, doubtless, they will search these woods and the surrounding district so there is every chance I shall be found.’

The girl drew a quivering breath. ‘Yes, mistress.’

Clare gave her a little push in the direction of the Hoyland prisoners and turned resolutely to Robert Devane, who was striding purposefully back towards her.

‘You must mount up, now, mistress, we are ready to set off.’

The Frenchman, whose bold dark countenance and mocking grin she distrusted most, brought up her palfrey. Robert Devane prepared to lift her to her saddle and she flinched from the feel of his two strong hands upon her waist, but knew it would be useless to protest. Better Devane than his foreign henchman.

He settled her comfortably and handed her the reins. She resisted the urge to kick her horse into a canter and make for the road. It would be useless, she knew and shuddered inwardly at the thought of an arrow between her shoulder blades. She had seen how proficient these men were with their weapons. They were ruthless. Her uncle’s conduct had made them desperate and she must pay the price.

She waited docilely while the little troop mounted up behind her then, with Robert Devane’s masterful hand upon her bridle rein, she allowed him to lead her along the forest track.

Chapter Three

Clare struggled to keep her fears under control as her captor led her along the woodland paths. Already she was convinced she was totally lost even if she were able to evade her guards. Her heart was beating painfully as she realised that allowing Bridget to remain with the members of her wounded escort had left her completely compromised. She gave an inner laugh. Bridget’s presence, as she had been at pains to point out to Robert Devane, would hardly have proved any real protection but, though the girl was feckless and often silly, Clare was missing her now sorely.

The men did not speak but pushed steadily on, sure-footed, the leader clearly knowing his way. Clare stole a glance at Robert Devane, who rode serenely beside her. She had noticed that he was still limping when he walked to her in the woodland glade and she wondered how well her treatment had progressed. She knew, only too well, that the very real danger of such a deep wound was the possibility of infection setting in. If that occurred, the patient either lost a limb—or his life.

The man in the lead paused and turned. Robert Devane shortened the leading rein of her palfrey and rode in close.

‘We are very near to our destination now,’ he informed her coldly. ‘When we arrive I want your promise that you will make no attempt to escape, otherwise I must keep you pinioned.’

She looked back at him proudly. ‘I shall give you no such promise, Master Devane,’ she said icily. ‘I am completely at your mercy and expect no soft treatment from you.’

‘Nor will you get it, Mistress Hoyland,’ he returned, but without rancour.

He was smiling and she had no way of knowing whether there was malice in the words or merely an amused rejoinder.

A hut loomed up before them suddenly, almost hidden by the dense foliage. It was a poor place of wattle and daub with a roughly constructed and warped door of split logs. Smoke was escaping from a hole in the ill-thatched roof.

The hut had obviously been used occasionally by some woodcutter or charcoal burner, Clare thought, for it was hardly substantially built enough for winter weather. She shivered inside her fur-lined cloak and was glad of its warmth and the protection it afforded her from Robert Devane’s eyes observing how she was trembling.

One of the men slipped inside and, almost instantly, a woman emerged, big, raw-boned, unfriendly looking. She stood, arms akimbo, regarding Clare stonily as Robert Devane lifted her down from her palfrey.

He greeted the woman cheerily, ‘Ah, Margery, as you see, we have a prisoner. This is Mistress Hoyland. I wish you to keep a very close watch on her.’ He gave a brief bubble of laughter. ‘Especially since she decided to dispense with the services of her maid. Didn’t trust the lass to our menfolk.’ He looked over at them jovially. ‘A sentiment I can well understand. But now she is without chaperon and will need you to act as such.’

The woman addressed as Margery looked even more sourly from her master to his prisoner.

‘And she is the prize, is she? What of her uncle, Sir Gilbert?’

‘Had left her on the road to our mercy, gone on to London about his own concerns.’

‘What you’d expect from a Hoyland,’ the woman spat out vituperatively. ‘Has no care for his own womenfolk nor any respect for others.’

Clare felt herself going even paler and, stiffened from her ride, almost fell as Robert Devane’s supporting arm was withdrawn from round her waist.