Page 45 of Beguiled
By the time we were a two days’ ride from Kensington, my apprehension had only grown.
“I do not understand,” I said, as I rode next to Mikkel. The village we’d just skirted had been abandoned. The thatched huts were dark, doors open, shutters broken or hanging by one hinge, and garden beds overgrown with weeds. “’Tis as if a plague has struck the people.”
“No one has made mention of disease.” Mikkel’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the darkness of the surrounding countryside. Always alert, Mikkel used the scant light from the stars and moon to guide us. From behind, Gregor, too, was ever aware of our surroundings.
The scent of a campfire hovered in the air, signaling the presence of others in the area, and yet the wooded trail kept us hidden. Old fir and hemlock mixed with seedlings of the new growth among the large boulders and crags, shielding us as we rested by day and providing security for our travels by night.
“A year ago, the land was well populated.” Something had happened during the time I’d been gone from Warwick. And whatever it was didn’t bode well.
At a nearby woman’s scream, I reined in my mount. Mikkel’s horse shied next to me, and Gregor already had his sword drawn. We waited unmoving, all of us, attempting to decipher the meaning of the scream.
Raucous laughter drifted into the air followed by more screaming.
“Someone is in trouble.” I shifted my mount toward the sound.
Mikkel held out a gloved hand. “I shall ride ahead and scout the situation.”
“Should we not stay together?” I whispered with a glance around at the dark shadows of the woodland. “Surely we are safer that way?”
Mikkel hesitated and exchanged a glance with Gregor. “Very well, but you and Gregor must remain out of sight.”
I nudged my horse forward, already veering in the direction of the laughter. Mikkel pushed ahead of me, taking the lead, and Gregor formed the rear, silent but seeming to see everything.
The light of flames guided us to a camp. As we reached the outskirts, we could see a group of men with long, unkempt hair and scraggly beards terrorizing what appeared to be a family. One of them had pinned a woman’s arms behind her back and had a knife against her throat. Two others were holding a man between them and another was beating him. Several young children ducked behind a cart and watched, their eyes rounded with fear.
Without waiting for Mikkel or Gregor, I charged forward, my bow fitted with an arrow. I let it fly toward the man threatening the woman, then readied another and aimed it at the other perpetrator. He howled as the arrow pierced into his shoulder.
Mikkel broke into the camp ahead of me, wielding his spear in one hand and knife in the other. Within seconds, the men fell to the ground, unconscious or too debilitated to fight back.
He jumped off his horse and dropped onto the largest of the men, spear thrust against his chest. “Who are you and what are you doing?”
The burly man beneath Mikkel’s boots released a snarl of laughter. “I thought everyone knew who we were.”
I remained on the edge of the camp, out of the full light of the campfire, but Gregor had wasted no time in dismounting and beginning the process of disarming and binding the bedraggled men who, upon closer examination, had yellowed, emaciated skin, hollowed eyes, and gray broken teeth.
They looked as though they’d been sorely abused themselves. But by whom and for what reason?
The woman, now free, had hurried to her children and now huddled with them behind the cart, drawing them into her arms and comforting them.
The husband cradled his stomach, likely sustaining cracked ribs if not a broken arm.
Mikkel shifted his glance to me, as though reassuring himself I was safe. In that instant, his prisoner managed to slip a knife from his belt and raised it toward Mikkel’s leg.
“On your left!” I shouted, my pulse spurting.
Mikkel jabbed the spear into the man’s arm with a force that thrust it to the ground and pinned it in place. The man cried out and released his hold on the knife.
Digging his spear deeper into the man’s flesh, Mikkel glared down at him. “Tell me who you are and what your business is here assaulting this family.”
“We’re slaves,” he ground out, “set free from the mine pits by Prince Vilmar.”
Mikkel grew deathly still. “Prince Vilmar?”
My racing heartbeat came to an abrupt halt.
During the past long days of traveling, Mikkel hadn’t mentioned contacting Vilmar. As a man of honor, Mikkel probably had no wish to interfere with his brother’s training in any way.
“Prince Vilmar is from Scania,” the slave said, even as he grimaced from pain.
