The Baron's Bride. Joanna Makepeace

smaller signs which she found so touchingly horrifying: the spilt wine, the wooden mazers and platters that had been hacked about in the acts of senseless destruction, all marks of the dread scene, and her father’s favourite elderly hound lay slain, horribly blood-smirched.

      Gisela found her voice to let out one long howl of anguish. Instantly she alerted one of the routiers, who was in the act of wrenching a wall hanging from behind her father’s chair. She registered the fact, dully, that she had been told that it was especially prized as her mother’s work when Lady Hildegarde had first come as a bride to Brinkhurst.

      The man turned and let fall the hanging. He let out an animal yell and leaped for Gisela and bore her to the ground. She fought him desperately with teeth and claws, crying out curses to the god who had let this disaster overtake them and pleas to the mother of all to protect a virgin, as she was herself.

      She was suddenly wrenched free and rolled clear, sobbing, clumsily attempting to hold together the torn parts of her gown, to see Kenrick in mortal combat with her attacker. The two men were rolling over and over, panting hard, scrambling for mastery and thrusting with their daggers in frantic attempts to find vulnerable spots to aim for and finish this fight.

      Gisela crouched some feet away, too winded and frightened to even try to rise and run. She was too shocked even to be fearful for Kenrick’s safety. She watched each move with horrified fascination, not even aware that there were other men in the room, men flushed with victory, their hauberks smeared with ominous bloodstains, their faces soot blackened.

      They were all laden with pillaged goods, linens, fur pelts, metal drinking cups, weapons. They stood and cheered on the combatants as if this was one special entertainment put on for their amusement, for the moment too engrossed in the fight to take note of the girl crouched some feet from them.

      Gisela gave a terrible sob of desperation as she saw Kenrick’s opponent strike down ruthlessly, giving a panting gasp of triumph that was echoed by his fellow routiers.

      Alain de Treville saw the betraying plumes of smoke almost at the same moment as Kenrick of Arcote had done so. He reined in his horse abruptly and stared back towards the clearing he had just left. Huon rode up to his side and peered in the same direction.

      “A cottage fire, got out of hand, my lord?”

      “I doubt it. There’s too much smoke for that. It could be the manor house.”

      “My lord?”

      “There have been several attacks on property near here, recently. Huon, take the pup. I’m going back. Ride straight for the castle and tell Sir Clement I want a company of men to mount up instantly and follow me to Brinkhurst. Impress on him the urgency of my need.”

      He scooped up the wriggling, protesting puppy from the pannier basket and thrust it into the boy’s arms. He could see he needed to say no more to have Huon realising his need and obeying his orders instantly. The boy’s young face was set. He made no attempt to protest that he should accompany Lord Alain. Obviously his lord’s prime need now was to have reinforcements at his back. He nodded and spurred his horse in the direction of Allestone, firmly holding in his squirming burden with one arm.

      De Treville cursed inwardly at low-lying branches that impeded his headlong ride down the track. His one thought was for Gisela. As he thundered through the clearing he saw at once that the two horses were gone. Gisela and her youthful swain had left and were, doubtless, heading back to Brinkhurst and certain danger.

      He rode on, straight into the smoke blown his way by the wind, gritted his teeth and soothed his courser, which was rearing and squealing in dismay at the obvious signs of fire his master was deliberately aiming him into, through the gate arch into Brinkhurst’s courtyard, where he saw now only three riderless horses. His expression hardened as he jumped down and gave a curt command to his mount. Well-trained, despite his natural fear of fire, the destrier would wait docilely for his master’s return.

      De Treville made for the hall steps at a run, his hand on his sword hilt. It would seem that what opposition to this attack there had been, had been easily subdued and most of the marauders had already left. His body went cold as he thought Gisela might have been carried off by one of them. Her one champion would have had little chance to foil any attempt to abduct her. He burst through the screen doors to the scene of destruction.

      He’d been right. Most of the looters had departed. One man only, laughing and whooping with delight, was engaged in pulling along a scratching, biting girl, whose gown and head veil were torn, a girl whose wrists had been bound with some cloth, possibly torn from a damaged wall hanging.

      At the sudden entrance of a newcomer, her abductor raised a hand in guffawing greeting, as if to a companion, then his eyes narrowed as he recognised a stranger. He let go of the girl, who fell back against an overturned trestle, and, drawing his sword, got ready to defend his prize.

      De Treville leaped into the attack, his soldier’s eye taking in the fact that the man appeared to have recently been engaged in conflict. He would be tired. There was no need for haste now. He could be defeated simply enough by being worn down.

      De Treville called a curt command to Gisela. “Stand clear. Leave the man to me.”

      She was distraught and totally exhausted and was only too glad to obey. She scrambled up from her tumble and moved warily to the side of the hall, her eyes never leaving the combatants. She looked across once at the sprawled form of Kenrick and hastily averted her eyes.

      This contest at arms lasted very little time at all. She watched, dry-eyed, as de Treville skilfully fought the man back and back until he was tight against a trestle. One well-aimed move and her erstwhile captor had been thrust headfirst over the fallen trestle and de Treville leaned easily down and dispatched him with one thrust. The fellow gave only one strangled grunt as if utterly surprised.

      Alain de Treville rose and moved towards the distraught girl. He sheathed his blood-smeared blade and, after freeing her hands and took one shaking hand within his, his head jerking upwards as two men came thundering down the stair behind the dais. They took in the sight of their fallen comrade and, laden down with valuables, thought it best to take to their heels and flee.

      One made it, scrambling through the screen doors, dropping most of his trophies, but de Treville sprang over another fallen trestle and engaged the other swiftly. Taken as much by surprise as Gisela’s former captor, the man took a thrust beneath the arm where his mailed hauberk was weakest and dropped with scarce a murmur and the clatter of metal cups as they fell from his hands.

      Gisela had run towards Kenrick’s body. He was lying face down and, frantically, she tried to turn him, the tears she had held back till now streaming down her face.

      De Treville reached her and bent down to draw her aside gently. “Let me.”

      She sat back on her heels, mutely entreating him to inform her that Kenrick still lived. He turned the young man, noting grimly the gaping chest wound and blood soaking the rushes beneath him. His questing fingers sought the side of the neck for sign of a pulse and he looked up quickly to meet Gisela’s agonised gaze and gently shook his head.

      “I am sorry.”

      She let out a terrible sob and put one shaking hand to her lips.

      “He died protecting you?”

      She nodded mutely.

      “Then you must be glad for him that he died a true man’s death, fighting for one he cared about.”

      “I—I have known him all my life. He…he is Kenrick of Arcote…”

      He nodded, rose to his feet and, slipping off his mantle, he covered Kenrick’s form after gently closing the staring eyes.

      Gisela gave another great gulp of terror. She looked round wildly at the sprawled bodies. So far she had not been able to recognise individual servants, womenfolk and—and still—still—she had not identified her father.

      De Treville put his hands to her shaking shoulders and drew her to her feet, then he led her to a bench,