- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey
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CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN:
Vengeance
Lia heard another kick, then the gasp of pain from Colvin’s lips. In her mind, the screams of dead mastons swarmed the grove. Despite the fury of feelings, she recalled something Colvin had told her – that mastons were being murdered, that Demont was fighting to change that. The decisive moment was nearly there – the slaughter at Winterrowd that Maderos had predicted. If he was going to survive the battlefield slaughter, it would be because of her. She knew it instinctively. Perhaps her knowledge of healing would save his life. Perhaps just being nearby to drag his body from the field would be enough. But if Colvin were to die, it would not be in the Bearden Muir. It would be at Winterrowd.
Unclenching her fingers from the stallion’s mane, she turned to the sheriff’s men. Every feeling in her heart throbbed with passion and determination. She would see him to Winterrowd. She would fulfill her promise.
“Let him alone!” she screamed at them. With every spark of thought, she willed them to stop hurting him. She did not wait to be obeyed. Rushing forward, she thrust herself on Colvin’s crumpled body, shielding it with her own. His face was bloody, his cheeks quivering with pain.
Gazing up defiantly at the soldiers, she saw shock in their eyes. One stepped back.
“Just a wretched,” one of them said, his eyes scrunching.
“I said leave him alone!” she screamed again, looking directly at that man, lifting herself higher. “Do not touch him. Do not kick him. Lower your swords, he is not fighting you.” There was hesitation, two of them shook their heads, as if in a fog. “Put them down!” she ordered.
Two of them obeyed, the blades thudding in the mud. The third stepped further back, holding the sword up as if to protect himself from her.
Branches crackled and more horsemen arrived, Almaguer leading them. His eyes found hers and held them steadfastly. Her courage began to melt. There was something in his eyes – a look – a fearful look. Her teeth began to chatter.
Colvin clutched her hand. “Do not fear him,” he whispered hoarsely.
Almaguer dismounted his bloodied stallion. Lia felt as if she were surrounded by things she could not see. Invisible muzzles poking at her back, her arms. Sniffing at Colvin and his wet wounds. Her teeth chattered even more.
One of the three soldiers who had beaten Colvin, the one still holding his sword, waggled it at her. “She…she…Almaguer…”
“Say nothing,” Almaguer interrupted. “She is powerful because of who she is. She is Demont’s spawn. But still, only a wretched. She does not know what she is doing or how.”
Lia looked down at Colvin’s face. His eyes fixed into hers. “Do not fear him,” he whispered.
“How?” she whispered back, choking down a sob. Every part of her wanted to flee, to hide from this man whose eyes glowed silver in the dark. The feeling of safety was gone. The calm feeling from the night before shredded before the onslaught, leaving only threads.
“Muirwood,” he whispered, hunching as another spasm of pain tore through him. He squeezed her hand so hard it hurt. “Think on Muirwood.”
“Yes, think on Muirwood,” Almaguer said with a bite in his voice, for he was close enough now to have heard. “Think on it, my dear, and imagine every stone broken down. Every window dashed in. The treasures spoiled. The tomes melted for jewelry. Tapestries ripped from the hanging poles and torched. Think on that, child, and know that you caused it. The Aldermaston’s head on a spike at the gate. All because of you. Yes, think on that.”
His words filled her with visions. She could see his words, could see the abbey burning.
Colvin’s hand clenched again. He tried sitting up, tried to speak, but Almaguer smashed the pommel of his sword against his head and he dropped silently.
“No!” Lia screamed.
Almaguer looked at her coldly, then twisted his head. She could see a scar on his cheek from where she’d scratched him. “Dolbreck, Hutton…Manth and Fraire. Bind him in irons and tie him to his horse. I want him delivered to the king’s camp before dawn. I would let you butcher him now, but his Majesty will prefer to do this one himself.” His eyes narrowed with hatred. “Colvin Price, cousin to the king, arrested for high treason. Take him.”
Lia hugged Colvin’s body, shaking her head in disbelief. Almaguer grabbed her arm and yanked, dragging her away from him. Soldiers approached, their expressions grim, and shackled his wrists in iron clamps. One grabbed the stallion, which snorted and resisted, but obeyed when another man seized the reins. Two others hoisted Colvin across the saddle and bound him with strong cords. To her, he looked dead.