“Good morrow, Papa,” she pressed a kiss to his bristling cheek and swept from the room, dashing back the tears that once again threatened.
In the privacy of her chambers, Maris found Verna strangely jumpy. “Go on,” she told her maid tiredly. “Get you to the man who waits you.”
“Thank you, milady,” her servant told her, slipping from the room with undue haste.
Maris collapsed on her bed, drawing thick furs up to cover her from head to toe. The fire that had been laid was burning merrily, and the chamber was not cold at all—still, she felt the need to hide from the world.
She must have slept, for suddenly she was being shaken awake.
“Milady,” whispered Verna urgently, shaking her shoulders rather too roughly. “Milady, you must come— Ernest of the hillock has been grievously injured.”
Maris’s mind cleared of sleep instantly. She nearly leapt from the bed. “Please, Verna, my green overtunic,” she said, fumbling to draw her shoes on.
“Nay, milady, there is no time,” Verna told her, pulling Maris’s blue cloak from a trunk. “Widow Maggie says you must come at once.”
Maris tied her long hair into a knot and stuffed it into an enveloping scarf. Her servant moved closer to wrap her in the cloak. Quickly, she pulled the basket with her herbs from the nearby trunk and whisked from the room in Verna’s wake.
The keep was fairly silent, and very dark. Even the boy who tended the fire in the Hall was nodding off at his post. Maris did not have the heart to waken him on such a chill, dark night—although upon her return, she’d have a few words with him.
“Come, milady,” Verna urged, reaching for her arm to pull her through the hall.
Maris did not care for the strength of the other woman’s grip—nor her familiarity—and she shook the tight fingers from her wrist. Her servant scarcely noticed, so quickly was she skirting through the Hall, and then out into the bailey.
At the gates to the portcullis, Maris hailed the guards—who were not, fortunately, following the example of the fire tender—and explained her mission. They waved her on through, misliking her intent to wander through at the darkest part of the night, but following her commands to remain at their post. “You need not rouse a guard for me,” she told them. “I have Verna, and we are going only to Ernest Hillock’s home.”
Verna, for her part, barely stopped as Maris greeted the guards. “Come, milady,” she urged again. “He is not well.” She led her mistress through the dark streets of the village, through the center square and to the south side.
“Widow Maggie awaits within,” Verna told her, opening the door to a dark hut and gesturing Maris to go ahead.
Maris stepped incautiously through the doorway and instantly, two strong hands grabbed her. One covered her mouth tightly, smothering her instinctive scream, and the other banded around her arm as she struggled against a forceful grip that dragged her up against a solid body. The cloak fell from her shoulders, leaving her only clothing the light chemise she’d worn in bed.
A man grunted as he felt a well placed kick, and he retaliated with a blow to her face that sent her head snapping aside. The pain stunned her for a moment, and the next thing she knew, a thick cloth was shoved into her mouth, gagging her. She tried to bite at the fingers that pressed it in there, and succeeded in tasting dirty flesh. Before she knew what was happening something rammed her knees from behind, sending her buckling to the ground.
“Take care, ye idiot,” came rough voice. “He wants her alive and well!”
She gasped in pain and fear, struggling weakly now as her hands were bound behind her back with heavy rope. Lying on a cold dirt floor, she was suddenly overcome by violent shivering and a rising swell of nausea. Her cheek throbbed from where she’d been hit and though she twisted and fought, she was held tightly.
“Make haste!” someone whispered.
A heavy cloth was thrown over her head, and she felt herself rolled loosely in the burlap from head to toe.
“I’ll take the cloak,” came a voice she recognized as Verna’s, and Maris’s struggles began anew at the realization that her own maid had betrayed her.
“Oh, aye?” sneered a man’s voice.
Maris, shocked, but still able to hear, focused on the sounds that followed. There was a surprised gasp from her maidservant, then the sounds of slaps against flesh, then thuds and and grunts. Verna gave a stifled shriek, moaning throughout the struggle. There were at least three men, Maris’s fogged mind decided, and through the sounds that ensued, she had an ugly suspicion as to what they were doing to her.
One of the men groaned loudly, and there was a particularly harsh whimper from the maid.
Finally, there was silence but for the sounds of harsh breathing. Maris, truly terrified, held her breath, wondering if she was next. Rough hands plucked at the enveloping burlap, and she felt herself being lifted into the air, over someone’s shoulder.
“Hide her,” said the voice closest to her. “I’ll take this on ahead. Make haste, for the alarm may be sounded at any time.”
Maris felt herself being carried, and then felt herself flying briefly through the air as she was tossed into some type of platform. She landed heavily, bumping her head and hips against the floor, and then the vehicle began to move thereafter. The cold was beginning to seep through the cloth, and her fingers and toes felt the worst of it. Though the smelly, rough burlap was thick, she had not been rolled too tightly. Although her breathing was labored, she was able to draw it in some air.
After a time, she either lost consciousness or slept, for it must have been later that she was jostled from the cart. Her head pounded and the side of her face still hurt from where she’d been struck. Still wrapped in the burlap, she shivered as she was placed over what must have been the back of a horse. Something warmer covered her then, and then she felt a rope over her back, securing her to the mount. Fear gripped her again as the horse was urged to a canter and then a hearty gallop, for she had no way to hold on, and if the rope gave, she would be trampled beneath the horse’s hooves.
Up until now, her kidnappers had been relatively silent, except for short, terse directions from the one who gave the orders.
Who could have done this? she asked herself, willing her mind to focus. Earlier, someone had mentioned a “he”, and obviously this “he” didn’t want her to be harmed.
Her first thought was Victor—but that she dismissed immediately. Why would he abduct her if she was about to be betrothed to him?
She forced her mind to remain clear and work through the events slowly. Verna was involved—although from the sounds of the struggle that had taken place—it seemed that she was also somewhat expendable, for she’d been left behind. In what condition she’d been left behind, Maris, didn’t know. She shuddered at the thought.
Whoever it was, then, wanted her alive and for his own purposes. Ransom was a probable cause, or, mayhaps someone wished her powerful father to bend to his will in a political matter. At any rate, Maris tried to put her fears of being harmed to rest: obviously, if it were for a ransom, she would be returned unharmed.
They traveled for an interminable length of time, it seemed to her. In reality, she had no idea of day or night. Once, she was yanked off the horse and roughly unrolled from her covering then allowed to relieve herself in the nearby brush. Her arms were kept tied and her captor, whom she did not recognize, stood with his back to her. Embarrassed but desperate, Maris tried not to think of his proximity as she crouched in the snow.
Then she was made to sit near a small fire with the three men, and they fed her a hunk of cheese and a small crust of bread. One of them poured ale into her mouth, heedless of the streams that ran down her chin and throat. At one point, Maris tried to ask them who they were and what their purpose was, but she was silenced by the threat of a gag.
She was rolled back up into the burlap and loaded on the back of the horse again, and the journey continued.
