Page 121 of Historical Hotties
She was stunned but not hurt. Arms were reaching down to pull her up and she tried to yank away from them even in her shock.
“Let me go,” she hissed, struggling. “Take yer hands off me.”
Two of the knights had her by the arms. “By God’s Bloody Rood,” the same man who had yelled at her spoke. “She is Scots. No wonder she ran.”
The knight on her other arm shook her roughly. “What are you doing here, girl? Spying?”
The world was weaving and her ears were ringing, but it did not lessen her resolve to fight. “Let me go!” she shrieked.
The first knight yanked her hard enough to snap her head back. She ended up pressed against his chest, her small, voluptuous body wedged intimately against him.
“You are a spy, lass, admit it,” he muttered, spittle on his lips. “We know how to deal with spies.”
Her struggles increased to panicked proportions as she struggled to pull herself away from the English dog dripping spit on her shoulder. As she twisted and pulled, she suddenly noticed in her peripheral vision that Bress was still on the ground.
“Sweet Jesus!” she exclaimed softly, her panic for herself turning into panic for her horse. “Bress! He’s hurt!”
The knights would not let her go. A third knight stood beside Bress, eyeing the softly groaning horse critically.
“Broke his leg,” he said casually, hands on his hips. Then he looked to the fourth knight who had come to stand next to him. “Give me your sword so I can put this beast out of its misery.”
Carington began to weep loudly. “Nay,” she sobbed. “My sweet Bress. Let me see him. Oh, please, let me see him.”
The first knight ignored her plea, bending down to throw her over his shoulder. He was a younger man with blond eyebrows, short of stature but evidently strong. Carington fought and kicked him with every ounce of strength she possessed, trying to aim for his neck. But he wore armor and the helm protected tender spots.
As he carried her back towards his horse, she caught a glimpse of Bress on the ground, lifting his head as if trying to see where his mistress was. Sobs of grief overcame sobs of terror; she reached out as if to touch the horse, now laying crippled on the ground. She could see a bloodied right rear leg, near the ankle, and the stiff appearance of something that did not look natural jutting out of his leg. It was a bone, and she squeezed her eyes shut at the sight.
Weak with sorrow and agony, she still struggled with the knight who carried her back to his horse.
“Please,” she begged through her tears. “Please let me go to my horse. Please let me comfort him.”
The knight slapped her lightly on the buttocks. “’Tis just a horse, lady. He does not need you.”
The ring of a broadsword being unsheathed caught her attention. She could see the two knights over by Bress; one of them held his broadsword by the hilt, pointing downward as if to ram it into the ground. But he was aiming at Bress’ heaving chest. Carington screamed at the top of her lungs as the knight plunged the sword into the soft golden flesh of her beloved steed. Bress twitched and then fell still. But Carington kept screaming.
She struggled weakly with the knight, devastated at the death of her adored horse, devastated that she was being abducted. Her decision to flee the English from Prudhoe had cost too much. It had been stupid, foolish, and ill advised. She knew thatnow. Slave or no, she would have been better off with the men from Prudhoe and Bress would still be alive.
The knight was trying to load her onto his charger but she was not a willing burden. As he gave her a good shove to get her up on the horse, a thin wail pierced the air, rapidly growing louder until ending in a dull thudding noise a few feet from the charger. Startled, Carington looked to see a long Welsh arrow protruding out of the ground. Another wail and another arrow buried itself deep in the earth a few feet to her left.
The knight dropped her from his horse and shouted to his comrades to gather their weapons. As Carington fell to her knees and struggled to crawl away, she caught sight of chargers racing towards them from the road beyond. Great hooves threw up clods of moist earth, the thunder from the destriers filling the air with power.
She recognized Creed’s big charcoal steed leading the pack. Finding her feet, she had two thoughts; to reach Bress and to stay alive. She did not even think about the punishment she might be facing at the hands of Creed de Reyne. There was a good deal of shouting going on around her as she finally reached her horse, falling beside him in the soft, wet grass. He was still warm. Throwing her arms around his neck and laying her head on his face, she closed her eyes to the sounds of death all around her. Grief consumed her and tears started anew, almost uncaring that she was surrounded by danger.
It did not take long for the sounds of the battle to wane. Four knights against the force that Creed had brought was hardly much of an opposition. She felt a hand on her arm, a soft male voice in her ear.
“My lady?” Stanton was standing over her, his sword drawn to ward off any fighting that might come into proximity. “Are you all right, my lady?”
She opened her eyes, looking up at him even as she continued to lie on her horse. She could not even speak. But she did nod, once. Stanton had her by the arm, his angular face laced with concern.
“Please, my lady,” he pulled gently. “You must get up. We must get you to safety.”
She shook her head, holding the horse tighter. “Nay,” she wept softly. “I canna leave him.”
Stanton’s pale eyes moved over the horse, seeing the chest wound, the leg. “Did they do this?”
She continued to sob as if her heart was broken. “They chased me and my horse fell.”
“Did they kill your horse?”
