The Knight's Prisoner (8 page)

She sighed and held her wrists out to him, and he gently wound the linen around them and then the rope. He pulled his leggings on and bound her wrists to his own as usual, settling against her back.

“Good night, slave,” she said tiredly.

“Good night, my lady.”

The next day she considered trying to humiliate him more in front of the men, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. For one thing, he might refuse her, because weakening his status with the troops might be in violation of serving his prince. And for another thing, it simply wasn't right. Instead, she gave him quiet orders, demanding that he sit at her feet while she sat upon a log, or that he fetch her more wine the moment he got himself comfortable to eat his meal. He followed all of her orders with a seeming devotion that after a while, she found quite humbling. How could he so easily bend to her will? It was impossible to goad the man, though she tried and tried again. And she was finding him less and less attractive. She was frustrated with their interactions—they felt all wrong. She wanted to enjoy dominating Sir Ferrum, but she truly didn't. Finally, desperate for some kind of release of the torturous discomfort she was feeling, she brought a bullwhip into the tent. It was the kind they used to flog soldiers for serious infractions.

She ordered him to strip and lie down on the mat. Her heart was racing already at her daring. She took the whip and swung it with her full might, connecting with his low back. As usual, he did not flinch in the slightest, but in the seconds afterward, blood seeped from the stripe she'd made.
Oh, God.
What had she done? And why? What was she trying to prove?

She sank to her knees, shocked. She felt tears burning behind her eyes.

Sir Ferrum looked over his shoulder at her. “What?”

She burst into tears.

“Stop that,” Sir Ferrum commanded gently, all of his authority suddenly returning. “Come here.” He sat up and reached for her, pulling her into his lap, cradling her head against him.

“Ferrum,” she choked.

“Shh. It's all right. You can't hurt Ferrum.”

“Why would I even try?” she choked, disgusted with herself.

“It doesn't matter. You just wanted to see how it felt. It's all right.”

She pressed herself in tightly against him, fully aware of the irony of Sir Ferrum comforting
her
in this moment.

“I don't want to be master anymore,” she sniffed.

Sir Ferrum said nothing.

“I preferred it the other way.”

He still didn't answer.

“Did you?” she asked, pulling her head back to look at his face.

He looked at her and shrugged. “I don't care for you being miserable.”

“I won't be miserable,” she promised, giving her head an emphatic shake. “I won't fight you anymore.”

She lay curled against Sir Ferrum's chest that night, her wrists bound to one of his, waiting for the familiar feeling of resentment at being held against her will to well up in her. It came, as it always did, but it did not seem so strong or right. For the first time, she felt like there might be an alternative to wallowing in that feeling—and that confused her.

* * *

“Ferrum,” she whispered, several nights later, tugging at her wrists which were bound to one of his. She'd woken to a sharp sense of danger.

“What?” he answered in a whisper. He sounded wide awake and alert, as if she hadn't just woken him from gentle snores.

“Something's wrong.”

Ferrum was on his feet instantly, hauling her up with him by her bound wrists.

“What is it?” he whispered so softly it was no more than a breath.

“I don't know.” She couldn't tell, but she was sure there was some threat very close. He unbound them and moved silently about the tent, pulling on his boots and leather armor, sheathing his sword. She pulled on her overdress and laced the bodice tight. As stealthy as a cat, Ferrum moved his big body through the tent flap, pulling her smoothly along beside him.

Completely noiselessly, he woke the prince, then went about rousing the entire camp with the quietest of whispers. She heard the occasional scrape of metal or rustle of movements, but incredibly, the camp remained silent as the men armed themselves and prepared their mounts. Then they waited. At a certain point, she realized if her Sight had been wrong—or if she'd interpreted incorrectly—the men would never forgive her for ruining a good night's sleep. The longer nothing happened, the more her anxiety grew.

Ferrum pressed a dagger into her hand. “If something happens, I want you to climb up a tree or find some other place to hide and stay there, quiet as a mouse until it's all over. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

By the first light of dawn, they heard muffled sounds outside the camp. Phillip made a war cry, and his men leaped on their mounts and went on the offensive.

“Do as I said,” Ferrum said tersely and squeezed her shoulder as he left.

Clutching the dagger in her hand, she slunk toward the protection of the trees, surveying their dark forms in the blue-black light to see if any might be climbed. Instead, she opted for a cluster of large rocks which she could crawl into at a crouch. The camp had exploded into noise—shouts and war cries. The clang of sword striking sword made her teeth ache, and the clenching feeling in her belly grew tighter and tighter as she listened.

And then it finally occurred to her—this was her moment to escape. She was on the opposite side of camp from where King Benton's men had been waiting. It was dangerous, but so was staying with the Red Fox. She closed her eyes a moment and breathed deeply, gathering her courage about her. It was not the sort of escape she'd imagined. She had no provisions, but she did have the dagger, which was more than she'd had the last time.

She crept out of her hiding place stealthily, moving in the cover of the trees, away from the battle. When she was far enough away to avoid attention, she broke into a run, keeping in the brush but following the path of a stream, so she didn't make the same mistake she'd made the last time. She ran and she ran, and she didn't look back. A stitch in her side finally made her pause to catch her breath with her hands on her knees, her head down.

As she panted, her mind flicked to the battle. She wondered how it was going—how Ferrum fared. A pang of regret washed through her at leaving him. Not out of any sense of obligation to the Red Fox, but because it felt like something personal between them was unfinished.

A wave of vision flashed into her mind. Ferrum was wounded. She couldn't see his face, but she saw his torso, his tunic, soaked with blood. Ice washed over her, and she let out a loud ragged breath—the sister of a sob.

This wasn't her battle. And this was her chance to be free. She started up again, walking briskly this time, glancing over her shoulder every now and again to be sure no one had followed. But the vision of the blood soaked tunic wouldn't leave her mind. Ferrum. Injured. Mayhap he needed her. She was probably handier with a needle than any of the rest of them. She could stitch him up. She could tend to his needs so he could recover. She slowed her walking, indecision tearing her purpose in two.

He might be dead. The thought was like a stone in the center of her chest.

But to be practical, if he were dead, she wouldn't want to go anywhere near the Red Fox's camp again. Ferrum was the only one who made being a prisoner bearable. She tried to feel into it—was he dead? She saw him cutting a man down with a single stroke of his sword, his face covered in blood, his tunic a deep red. Mayhap it wasn't his blood at all. He looked every inch the fearsome warrior, not injured at all. But no, she saw him pressing his forearm to his ribs as if to staunch the flow of blood as he whirled around.

She stopped walking.
Shite. Damn, shite, damn it all to hell.

She turned and started walking swiftly back the way she had come.

* * *

He'd known the moment she left. He had been throwing glances over his shoulder in case she needed help. He'd seen her move from the rocks where she'd taken shelter and flee to the cover of the woods. It had been curious sort of pain he'd felt at it. One part of him was happy for her—he knew how badly she wanted her freedom. One part felt gutted at the loss. One part was relieved she was safely away from the melee of the battle, and one part feared she'd get lost or meet trouble fleeing them.

But now here she was, kneeling beside him, removing his leather armor, peeling back his tunic and undershirt, her face pale and drawn.

He brought his hand to her thigh and squeezed it. “I'm all right,” he muttered.

“I see that,” she said, but her jaw was still clenched. “It's a surface wound. The leather kept it from going too deep. It's long but it didn't make it through your ribs. I'll just stitch you up, we'll keep it clean, and you'll be fine.” She spoke firmly, as if she were reassuring herself of it.

“What made you come back, Dani?” he asked softly.

Her eyes widened, and then her face took on a look of ferocity. She leaned her face right up to his and said through clenched teeth, “Don't even
think
of punishing me, Ferrum.”

He started laughing, then, which pained him, and he curled up on the ground, clutching his wound and laughing.

“Stop that!” she snapped. “Stop it, Ferrum!” But then she started laughing reluctantly too.

He rolled onto his back and gazed at her, loving the way her face transformed when she smiled. Their eyes met and held, her wide blue stare full of a desperate confusion. He stroked her thigh.

“It's all right, little flower. Thank you.”

She regarded him warily. “For what?”

He shrugged. “For this. For coming back.”

Her lips twitched and she swallowed, still locked into the gaze from which neither of them seemed able to look away. She broke it first, turning her attention to threading her bone needle and knotting the end of the thread.

“Should I get a stick for your teeth?” she asked nervously.

He snorted. “No.”

She started stitching him, watching his face anxiously until at last she seemed assured she wasn't causing him pain and focused on her stitching. It took a long time. He drifted in and out of consciousness a bit, the loss of blood making him feel light-headed and the pain making him numb.

“Ferrum?” Danewyn's worried voice brought him back.

“It's all right,” he said automatically to reassure her. “Don't fret.”

She peered into his face, anxiously. His strongest instinct was to soothe away her anxiety, but he was warmed by it, just the same. “Can you come to our tent?”

“Not just now,” he grunted. There was no way he could get up. “In a little bit.”

That worried her more. She pressed wine to his lips and he drank a few choking gulps, unwilling to prop himself up to swallow properly. When night fell, he got up on his own, refusing help from the men who tried to offer it, and staggered back toward their tent. Phillip appeared next to him, knowing better than to offer a hand, but keeping pace beside him in case he fell. Inside, he collapsed on the bedroll. Phillip sat next to him and looked at him gravely.

“I'm fine.”

“Of course you are,” Phillip said.

“How many dead?”

Phillip blew out his breath. “Over half.”

“God's teeth.” Ferrum shook his head sadly. “At least it wasn't a complete ambush.”

“Aye. Your little Seer has proved her worth, not that I had any doubt of it.”

“She left during the battle.”

Phillip raised his eyebrows. “And then returned?”

“Aye—I don't know why.”

“I had a vision of you bleeding,” Dani's quiet voice reached them from the tent flap.

He felt his skin turn hot all over at her words.
She'd come back for him.
He found he couldn't speak, he was so overwhelmed by her words.

Phillip rescued him. “Thank you for returning, Danewyn. And thank you for giving us warning this morning. I imagine every man still standing owes his life to you today,” he praised her.

Dani flushed, probably unused to compliments or thanks of any kind. She bowed her head and bobbed a quick curtsy. “You're welcome, my lord,” she muttered.

He smiled warmly at her, pleased to see her acting like a lady for once.

“Shall I keep her in my tent tonight, Ferrum?” Phillip asked.

Dani looked dismayed. Her eyes pleaded with him. He winked at her. “Nay, I can handle her even with a hundred stitches in my side.”

She returned his smile uncertainly, and his heart sank. It had cost her to return—he could tell. She was still thinking about her freedom.

Phillip stood up and left the tent. “Good night, then. Thank you both for your service today.”

Dani brought him the linen and rope and laid down beside him, holding them out. He clasped her hand in his and squeezed it. “How about if I just hold your hand instead of binding your wrists tonight?” he asked.

She met his eyes, startled at the suggestion. She shrugged. “As you wish.”

“If you'll give me your word you won't try to leave, I'll never tie you up again,” he laid out the challenge, though he knew the answer already.

She looked as though she were considering, but then her eyes slipped away from his, and she said nothing.

“I see,” he said sadly and sighed.

* * *

The Prince ordered them to pack up camp the following day, despite the difficulty for the injured soldiers. It wasn't safe to remain where King Benton had found them. Dani fretted over Ferrum and tried to insist she ride with him to hold the reins of the horse, but he refused. He allowed her to ride her own horse, as they had animals to spare with all the deaths.

Phillip questioned her endlessly along the way, trying to determine the relative safety of possible campsites. Once they were safely settled, he came into Ferrum's tent to question her further.

“How did Benton find us?”

“There are traitors among you,” she sensed and reported. “One in your camp. Others who pretend to be supporters but accept gold for information.”

“Who is he? The one in the camp?”