For the Crown

By Susan Appleyard

Robbie, Bastard of Ovedale, is a warden of the East March of Scotland. Chasing Scottish raiders across the border is his life’s work and his love. On one such jaunt, he goes after a youth who has wounded his friend, only to discover that the youth is a girl, Mary Margaret Douglas. His mortification is complete when she renders him immobile by the application of pressure to a sensitive spot. Once he has regained control of the situation, he realises that his best option is to keep the red-haired virago with him until he can ransom her back to her family. The problem is her brothers don’t want her. That’s just one of the problems. Another is that Robbie is beginning to like her, but worst of all is the question of what to do with her now.
Robbie is summoned to war. He has to take the Scottish lass with him, but she is disruptive because she inspires the men to lust, including the despicable Lord Clifton who wants her for himself – at least for a week or two – and will stop at nothing, including murder, to get what he wants. Robbie’s father and his overlord, the Earl of Northumberland, want him to get rid of her, but it’s too late for that. Although he doesn’t know it, Robbie is falling in love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Appleyard
• Release date: Jun 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463481646

Susan Appleyard

Some of Susan Appleyard’s books have won Brag Medallions, been finalists in the MM Bennetts Award and the Wishing Shelf Award, and The Coffee Pot Book Club’s Gold Medal for Historical Fiction.Mother of three and grandmother of six, Susan lives in a snowy part of Canada but is fortunate to be able to spend part of each year in Mexico. No prizes for guessing which part.Before learning how to self-publish, Susan signed a three-book contract with a traditional publishing house in Toronto, which sold out to another company after publishing two of her books. Now, thanks to Amazon and others, she has published ten Ebooks and is working on a story set before, during and after the Russian Revolution.

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For the Crown

Pride and Honour in the Wars of the Roses

By Susan Appleyard

Published by Susan Appleyard 2018

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Chapter 1 – Across the Border November 1460

They came upon the Scots near noon beside the Blackadder Water, usually a burn that burbled along at a pleasant pace and was now a torrent of white water due to heavy rains. From their vantage point on a ledge above, Robbie Ovedale and Jonas Kempe parted the shrubbery and looked down on the raiders. As they had been told, there were eleven. All present and accounted for; there would be no surprises. They were all dismounted, their horses loose and lapping in the water or rooting around for something edible among the dead leaves and bare branches. Two of the men were filling water skins, and the rest sat around in small groups, casually talking as they ate their noonday fare. Robbie reckoned they were Douglases, or possibly Eliots. Close to home, they had begun to relax. All were heavily armed, as might be expected, but obviously, they had no idea that retribution was so close at hand. And there, among the horses was evidence of their thievery: Nathaniel Halden’s stolen kine, including his prized bull.

Robbie shot a glance at broad, homely Jonas. They think they’re safe.

Easy pickings, Jonas said. Let’s get on with it.

They snaked backwards on elbows and knees until they could no longer see, or be seen by, the Scots, and returned to where the rest of the men were waiting, far enough back that their horses’ whickering wouldn’t expose their presence.

It had been an unusually wet summer and autumn, resulting in roads being washed out, bridges and mills destroyed by swollen rivers, and streams bursting their banks. Wagons became bogged down; horses and men slogged through the gluey mud. A prudent traveller tested the depth of a pool that lay across the road before wading into it. In low lying land, the upper half of farmsteads could be seen in the midst of what appeared to be a lake. Pastures and fields were under sheets of water, so the crops rotted, and vegetable patches were ruined. Even the harvest of fruit and berries had been poor. It was a disaster England had not experienced in a hundred years and compounded her miseries.

To make matters worse, it promised to be a bitter winter. The journey so far had been accompanied by howling winds and frigid temperatures. The night before, there had been a little snow, just enough to leave a thin layer on the ground, but Robbie could see more snow in the clouds billowing in from the east.

They set off to find a path down the glen that wouldn’t risk the legs of their mounts and emerged beside the river sometime later. Making no further move to keep quiet, they spurred their horses over the uneven ground and bore down on the Scots, screaming like demons and waving their weapons in the air.

The Scots were taken entirely by surprise. By the time they had tossed their food aside, scrambled to their feet and made a grab for arms, the Northumbrians were among them, bringing the flats of their swords down on unprotected heads and backs before they were in a position to defend themselves. The kine, and some of the horses, too, were startled into bolting. No matter, they could be rounded up later.

Robbie saw that two – no, three of them had gained their saddles, and were about to make away. He couldn’t let that happen, for these lads were close enough to home to relax their guard and if any escaped on horseback, they could be back with greater numbers before the Northumbrians could make it back across the border with the retrieved kine. Jonas put himself in the way of two who were trying to escape, and Robbie went after the third, who turned in the saddle to swing a claymore at his head in a clumsy backhanded arc. Maybe it wouldn’t have taken his head off had it made contact, but Robbie wasn’t taking any chances. He ducked and deliberately drove his mount into the hindquarters of the Scot’s horse, at the same time grabbing him by the scruff and hauling him from the saddle. The horse shrieked and kept on going.

Leaving others to deal with the fellow on the ground, Robbie looked around to see how Jonas was faring. One of the two he had engaged, a brawny young brute, was commanding all his attention, with a series of vicious blows that kept Jonas so busy he didn’t have time to land a telling one of his own. Nor did he appear to have noticed that the other, a slight lad with a bonny face that was a stranger to razors, had wormed his way behind and had his claymore raised to strike. Robbie yelled a warning, and it was sufficient for Jonas to be able to shift his body slightly so that instead of cleaving his head in two, the blow fell on the outside of his shoulder and didn’t stop going until it had pared off a thick slice of his arm down to the elbow.

The sound that issued from Jonas’s mouth was somewhere between the bellow of an enraged bull and the shriek of a banshee with its hair afire. He whirled away from another potentially killing blow from the big Scot, who screamed at his smaller companion: Run! as he turned to the two others who had come at Jonas’s scream. Without hesitation, the young lad rowelled his horse and made off, bent low over the horse’s neck to avoid overhanging branches. Davy Whitehead was after him like a shot.

Leaping down from his mount, Robbie was ready to catch Jonas in his arms as he fell from the saddle. He dragged his stricken friend out of the melee of grappling men, his heels making twin tracks on the ground, and laid him down in a patch of dead grass and weeds beside the burn. As Robbie squatted beside him, Jonas’s right hand fastened on his arm. There was still a surprising degree of strength in the grip.

Get that little whoreson, Robbie. Give him a good foot of steel for me, he gasped. His face was already a pasty white, his pupils dilated, and although the November day was grey and chilly, a sheen of sweat had broken out on his brow. Robbie reckoned he was close to fainting and hoped he would do so soon.

Aye, I will. Count on it.

Never thought that puny weed had the strength for this. How does it look?

Robbie glanced at the wound. He’d been skirmishing with Scots since his sixteenth year, so he’d seen plenty of battle wounds, and taken some, too. This one caused crawlies in the pit of his stomach, but, then, maybe it was because he loved Jonas like a brother. The flesh had been pared away from the outside of his left arm and was hanging loose, exposing the meat underneath. Still attached just above the elbow, the long flap hung grotesquely in the grass like a huge lolling tongue. At the shoulder, a white knob of bone glistened. Both parts were oozing blood, and the coppery smell was strong in Robbie’s nostrils.

None so bad. Your ma will fix you up in no time. He suspected it was one of those wounds that looked worse than it was. At least there was no damage to muscle or sinew that he could see, so likely he would recover the use of his arm in time.

Glancing behind him, he saw the fight appeared to be over. Some of the men had gathered round, exclaiming and sympathising over the wound.

Give him some of the whisky to knock him out, then cleanse the wound and bind the two parts together. We’ll leave the stitching to his mother, he told Simon Bywater, who always carried with him a quantity of clean linen for bandages and a good supply of whisky strictly for medicinal use.

That was the one good thing to come out of Scotland: usquebaugh, the Scots called it, simplified to whisky. To everyone else, it was aqua vitae, the water of life. It was used for the relief of many a malady including colic, palsy and even smallpox, so Robbie had heard. But they had other uses for the stuff. It could warm a man of a chilly night better than any woollen blanket; it could put a wounded man in such a state of blessed oblivion that he didn’t much care what was done to him, and it was good for cleansing a wound to minimise the risk of infection.

Robbie had no idea how the lads had fared. It was not unusual for men to be killed or maimed in such skirmishes, although it was unlikely in this case as they had the superior numbers and caught the Scots by surprise. What concerned him most was how many had got away on horseback, and he thought only one. Him, Robbie needed to get, for Jonas’s sake and also to stop him raising the alarm. The Douglases who lived in those parts were only a sprig on the tree of the great clan, but they were fairly numerous. It would take them some time to organise a party to come after them, but on the other hand, they would make a snail’s progress to the border, as they would be driving the kine with them.

He found his horse and mounted. There was nothing else for it but to follow the burn. It tumbled over rounded, slippery stones and fell into pools of unknown depth that would make crossing a hazard, especially with Davy so close on the lad’s heels. On the other side, the glen rose gently, with huge boulders poking through the grass and heather and small stunted trees.

Eventually, he saw Davy ahead. He was sitting in the saddle quite still, and when he heard hoof beats, he glanced over his shoulder. At that moment a riderless horse emerged from behind a huge outcropping of rock, limping badly. Robbie gestured Davy to go around. Davy dismounted and began to climb up the slope toward the summit. Walking his horse slowly, Robbie went forward. When he reached the other side of the monolithic rock, there was nothing to be seen. It was possible the horse had thrown the lad in the accident that lamed it and he had crawled off somewhere. It was winter; the trees had been stripped of their leaves and although grass and weeds were still high, there was no flattened area where a body might have crawled, or even walked through.

Can you see anything? he called up to Davy.

I can so. Look off to your right. You’ll see his tracks through the bracken and yonder is a hut or hovel of some kind. He’ll be there.

Would he though? Robbie wondered. Could he be so callow as to seek sanctuary between four walls? The hovel was built of alder saplings, with the crevices stuffed with a mixture of mud and straw. It must have been a tidy dwelling in its day, but now the thatched roof was so far sunk he reckoned a good rain would be enough to bring it down. He crept up to the hovel. A wooden door hung by one leather hinge. He had to lift it to push it open. He peered inside. Filthy rushes covered the floor, and it smelt strongly of dung and decay. Not abandoned then. Two hens sat in a roost among the rafters, tilting their heads at him and clucking comfortably. There were a few sticks of furniture and pots on a shelf, but what caught his attention was a fenced enclosure on the far side of the one room with a door behind it. To let the pig or the cow in at night, he reasoned. The door was slightly ajar. Damn! Not so daft after all then, he thought, taking a step into the room.

The lad might be only a shaveling but Robbie had been that young once himself, and he’d entirely forgotten what a canny lad he’d been. Until he was reminded when what appeared to be a tree trunk came hurtling toward him. It struck him clean between the eyes, and he saw a brilliant display of stars and flashing lights as his knees hit the floor. There must have been a few moments when he blacked out because the next thing he remembered was the lad straddling his hips and the log of wood poised above his head ready for a second blow. He was light enough Robbie had only to jerk his hips up, and the lad went sailing over his head into the foul rushes. He heard the whoosh of breath being forced from the lad’s lungs as he scrabbled on his knees to his side aware that blood was flowing from his poor abused nose. In the meantime, the Scot had rolled over onto his back. Grabbing a handful of leather at his throat, Robbie drew back his fist and froze in astonishment. The fall had knocked the conical helm loose, and when Robbie lifted him ready to smash a fist into his face, the helm fell off, and a mass of auburn curls tumbled out.

Releasing his hold, Robbie sat back on his heels. Holy Mother of God! he muttered.

The lass was quick, he’d give her that. Reaching between his splayed thighs, she grabbed hold of his scrotum with a crushing grip. His scream somewhat resembled the sound Jonas had made when she carved his arm into two pieces. He could do nothing. The pain was so excruciating he could only watch in frozen despair as she fumbled for the small knife at her belt and hope that she struck true to put him out of his earthly misery. He could see her hand was trembling. There was a crash behind him at the same moment as she struck for his heart, not realising that he was wearing a cuirass beneath his jerkin. The blade slid along metal and off to one side, doing no damage. She never got a second chance, for Davy had kicked the door in and, seeing that Robbie was as close to death as he had ever been since Davy fished him out of the millpond when Robbie was five, hit the wench in the face with his doubled fist. Not a big man, Davy. In fact, he was quite scrawny, but there was a whiplike strength in those corded muscles, and the blow was powerful enough to lay the wench out flat.

The relief was as enormous as the pressure had been. Robbie drew a shuddering breath, then another.

A wench, is it then? Davy said, and thrust his hand between her woollen clad thighs and grinned at Robbie. Aye, a wench, by God!

Get your hands off her, you lecherous old rogue.

Robbie levered himself to his feet with the aid of Davy’s thin shoulder. He wasn’t sure at first if he’d be able to stand unaided and kept hold of Davy until the darkness threatening to overwhelm him passed. His nose was still pouring blood, but there seemed to be nothing around to stanch it with, so he pushed it against the sleeve of his jerkin.

Jesus, what were you thinking, lad, to let a wench get the drop on you? Davy’s bright blue eyes regarded him with grim amusement across the inert form. His thin face was somewhat like a ferret’s: round, unblinking eyes, a long pointed nose that always seemed to be red at the end.

Sly bitch, Robbie muttered. She was hiding behind the door.

Oh, well, I never would have thought of looking there! Davy said with considerable sarcasm.

He was right. Robbie should have known better. He hoped his nose wasn’t broken, not because he was so vain about his looks but because it was more than his pride could bear to have to go through the rest of his life carrying an injury that had been inflicted by a lass.

The question is, he said to divert Davy from his own shortcomings, what are we going to do with her?

The rear door suddenly opened, and a ragged unshaven fellow bumbled in, blinked twice at the scene that met his eyes and made a hasty exit when Davy said: G-r-r-r-ah!

I reckon we should just leave her here, he said, shrugging.

What about yon churl? What if he comes back? Maybe you’re not the only rascal in these parts who can’t keep his hands to himself.

And a good thing, too, or there’d be no hope for the men of Scotland. It wouldn’t do your temper any harm to give her a bit of a tup while she’s outta her senses, lad. I’ll let you go first.

I’m not in the habit of tupping lasses who are unconscious.

Shame. I must speak to your father about the way he brought you up.

They stood on either side of her looking down. Had she been an English lass, Robbie would have said she was pretty, in spite of the rosiness already marring the skin around one eye. Her mouth was like a fresh ripe strawberry, and there was a scattering of freckles across her nose, a defect English girls of good birth viewed as a serious impediment to any claim to beauty. And there was all that glorious hair. Robbie felt he could warm his hands on it.

In the end, they decided to take her with them. They could hardly just leave her there, after all, even if she was on home territory and that was no certainty. They spoke hopefully of ransom, although this was not the established practice between the Scots and their Northumbrian neighbours. Also, if the Douglases did give chase and managed to catch them, they would have a hostage with which to bargain for their safety. Robbie didn’t know if she was a Douglas, but he was reasonably sure she was gently born. A discreet examination of her person revealed little about her. She was clad as her male counterpart would be, but her right hand bore hard pads below the fingers, from gripping a sword or other weapon, he assumed. There was a slight abrasion on the outside of her index finger, which he recognised, having drawn a bow often enough for a callus to have formed in that same spot. It was her left hand, pale, long-fingered and soft, that proclaimed her a gentlewoman. A gentlewoman who liked weapons.

A small groan informed them she was coming around. Davy hurried outside to his horse and came back with a rope. He was all for binding her hand, foot and middle, but Robbie persuaded him that it would be sufficient merely to tie her hands behind her back. He had already removed her knife and the claymore stained with Jonas’s blood and checked for other weapons while she’d been unconscious. He felt reasonably sure they were safe.

Once he had her on her feet, he realised she was taller than he had first supposed, as tall as him and towering over pint-sized Davy – a veritable giantess. They hustled her outside and lifted her onto Robbie’s horse. Uncooperative, a dead weight, she wouldn’t even open her legs to straddle the horse. He had to heave her bodily in the air while Davy prized her legs apart and they were both huffing for breath by the time they had her adequately seated. Robbie intended to ride behind her, so on second thought, they hauled her off again, retied her hands in front and then maneuvered her back into the saddle. He didn’t want those lethal hands so close to his injured parts.

He went down to the burn to wash the blood from his face. After giving his nose a tweak, Davy declared it sound as ever, though he was likely to have two spectacular eyes to match the girl’s one. He could already feel a tingling and tightening there. The girl’s horse was standing nearby, head hanging. Robbie saw her gazing after it and felt a flicker of sympathy. It was lame. They had no choice but to leave it.

They rode back to join the others, Davy with a hen tucked under one arm, Robbie sitting very gingerly on his saddle and the girl between his thighs trying her best not to touch any part of him.

The men had already rounded up the cows, which were lowing under the trees, as well as a couple of the Scots’ horses. These were part of the spoils. Any profit from the lass herself Robbie and Davy would divide for capturing her. The men were full of themselves when they saw her, preening and strutting in front of her, but she kept her eyes well above their heads, her expression sullen.

It hadn’t been much of a fight, Robbie learned. Some of the men had cuts and scrapes, nothing serious, and only one of the enemy had been killed: the same big brute who had tried to protect the lass. He was laid out under a tree and covered by a cloak. They never buried the fallen enemy, any more than the Scots buried theirs. If he was a man of some importance, or if he had loved ones, someone would come to take away the body.

Robbie glanced at the girl, standing beside his horse with Davy keeping an eye on her. She was looking at the corpse, and he saw her lower lip begin to tremble. A brother, he wondered, or possibly even her husband? Whoever he was, they had obviously been close. But what kind of man was he, Robbie wondered, feeling a little heat on her behalf, to allow a gently bred girl to go on a cattle-thieving raid?

Kin of yours? he asked her.

She looked at him with burning hatred, and he noticed her eyes were green, as cool and dark and mysterious as a deep woodland pool. Go tae Hell, she said and turned away.

He left her and went over to where Jonas was laid out on the ground on a stretcher someone had contrived. They could only move slowly with the kine, so it was agreed they would take it in turns to carry him on foot. Robbie squatted beside him and looked him over. The wound had been bound tightly with a clean bandage, so he couldn’t tell how it was. But his face was still deathly pale, and Simon’s clumsy doctoring had made him bite through his lower lip.

Jonas, he said, and his friend opened one bloodshot, pain-filled eye a crack.

Is it you, Robbie? he croaked. You’ve blood all over you, man. I hope it’s not yours.

It is, but only from my nose.

Did you get the little prick? Jonas asked, opening the other eye, showing in fact quite a lively interest in the fate of the one who had sliced him up.

Robbie ran a hand through his matted hair. How could he resist? He couldn’t. Jonas, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just come right out with it. He felt his lips twitch. He had no idea what Jonas read in his face, but his head came up and his eyes suddenly opened wide in a flare of panic.

Jesus! Don’t let them take my arm off, Robbie –

No, you’re in no danger of losing your arm over a scratch like that, Robbie hastily assured him, and Jonas subsided with a sob of relief. What I wanted to tell you is that it was a wench that carved you up like a ham. The glare Jonas gave him was too much for his self-control. He whooped with laughter. He grunted and wheezed and held his sides and finally fell over, rolling on the trampled ground, helpless with mirth. His words were overheard and repeated until everyone was roaring with laughter. You’ll never live it down, Jonas! he managed to get out before subsiding again in another fit of mirth.

Just as the laughter was dying down, Davy said, Ah, she’s a hellion and no mistake. When I came across them, she was fondling Robbie’s bollocks with a grip like a vice and the poor lad was fit to swoon from the pleasure of it!

The girl and Robbie became the butts of their laughter and sly jests about keeping his parts out of the hands of wenches. He felt his ears burning and grinned along with them, while the Scottish lass sat through it all with a face carved of stone.

Up with you, Robbie said to her when they were ready to leave, and this time she swung into the saddle by herself, and he mounted behind her.

Wasn’t worth it, was it, lass, his life for a dozen scrawny kine? he said to her as they set off, driving the kine before them and with the spare horses tethered behind.

No, she said, looking back over her shoulder, it wasna.

Your brother was he? he pressed, having breached her citadel.

Go tae Hell, she told him again, effectively putting an end to that conversation.

They followed the Blackadder to the Whiteadder, which would eventually lead them to Norham, where they would cross the Tweed into blessed Northumberland. Robbie didn’t know where the Scots had crossed; there were many open spaces, guarded by patrols from the border fortresses but patrols could only do so much. Also, since some time the previous summer there had been a Scots army where the border slanted southwest, reckoned to be about eight thousand strong. Taking fullest advantage of the turmoil in England created by an escalating civil war, King Jamie had attacked Roxborough Castle. Apparently, God did not look upon this enterprise with favour, for the King had been standing too close to one of his cannon when it exploded and that was the end of James the Second. His dying wasn’t the end of the threat though, and his army went on to take Roxborough. Those who lived near the border had some bad moments then. They were convinced that James’ ultimate objective was Berwick, the mighty fortress at the northernmost tip of England that anchored a string of other fortresses guarding the border. If the Scots got their filthy, thieving hand on Berwick, it would provide them with a safe base from which to make forays into Northumberland, and no one who lived there would sleep secure in his bed again. But before that could happen, a treaty was concluded with the Yorkist government. The Scots army had not dispersed, however, but remained near Roxborough, making raids into England and creating havoc on the border.

They were unlikely to raid so far east. The greater danger was from the Douglases, and the men walked their horses mostly in silence, senses alert for an ambush, with someone always scouting ahead. It had begun to snow again as soon as they set off, making tracking them easy enough for a seven-year-old maid.

Much as she might want to, it was impossible for the girl to maintain the rigid posture that kept her from touching Robbie, and after a couple of miles, she gradually began to relax against him, perhaps as much for warmth as anything. He certainly appreciated her heat, as well as the subtle scent of her hair. They had not gone very far in this new position when he discovered to his horror that his injured part was responding in an embarrassing manner to the nearness of the girl’s arse. It was beginning to throb most uncomfortably, as there wasn’t much room for it to stretch between her body and his. To remedy a potentially humiliating situation, he immediately thought of Sweethope Lough. He imagined himself diving into the frigid water and shuddering. He dived in again and again in his thoughts, feeling goosebumps rising on his skin with the chill until finally, the swelling began to deflate. For all he was a bit mortified, it was a relief to know his parts were still in working order. He hoped she hadn’t noticed.

No such luck.

I would prefer tae walk, she said icily in her execrable accent. Although Robbie had tried a little light conversation out of politeness, these were the first words she had spoken since telling him to go to Hell.

She was wearing sturdy boots, so he let her down, and she strode on ahead, walking by herself and rebuffing with a stony silence any attempts to engage her in friendly conversation. Robbie couldn’t blame her for not finding their company convivial. He could only imagine how he would feel to be in the hands of a gang of Scots who had killed his brother.

No gentlewoman, no matter how mannish, was accustomed to walking miles, sturdy boots or no, and by the time they stopped to rest the horses and share a meagre meal mid-afternoon, she was tripping and staggering more often and obviously tiring. Robbie suspected she would rather throw herself off Oh Me Edge than ask to share his saddle again. He dug into his saddlebags for the remains of the food Mistress Kempe had packed for him. The kine were all standing together, blowing mist from their nostrils. Jonas was set down under a pine tree and appeared to be sleeping.

After having a look at him, Robbie went to sit beside the girl. She was perched on a log, her arms across her knees and her bright head hanging low. She ignored his presence. When he offered her a piece of hard bread and cheese, she turned a shoulder to him without speaking.

Some ale, at least, he coaxed, offering his skin. And don’t tell me to go to Hell again. It’s getting a little tiresome.

All right, I willna. She turned toward him, one eye now so dark it was almost hazel and full of anguish. The flesh around the other was so swollen it must have been hard for her to see anything of it. I’ll only ask ye tae leave me alone. Dinna talk tae me. I’m a wee bit grieved and no in the mood for idle conversation, ye ken?

Aye, I ken. Still, matters are as they stand. You’re making things harder for yourself than they need to be. Will you at least tell me your name?

By way of answer, she curled into herself, shutting Robbie out.

All right, he said cheerfully. We’ll do this your way, lass. But at some point, you might want to know where we’re going and what we intend to do with you. When that time comes, you just let me know.

He ate the rest of his food in silence, listening to the desultory talk of the men. Before remounting, he removed the rope from her hands. She’d have to be daft as a doormat to try to escape with night coming on and snow falling. And if she fell she would at least have her hands free to break her fall. He hoped his balls were safe. They still ached from their encounter with her.

I thank ye, she said, to his surprise, rubbing her wrists.

When they set off again, Robbie took his turn carrying Jonas, while she consented to go up before Davy. It was hard going. The ground was slippery, and Jonas was a big man, as tall as Robbie, who was taller than most, but Jonas had more bulk, no fat but plenty of muscle. He was lucid and talking, which was a good sign.

I feel like such a burden, he said pathetically. Self-pity was something that would get him scant sympathy in the present company.

So you are, Robbie laughed. You weigh as much as a small cathedral!

I’ll try a bit of walking tomorrow. Nothing wrong with my legs, after all, except that my knees wobbled a bit when I stood up to take a piss.

That’ll be a relief to us all, said Jug-eared Jack, who walked at his head, stumbling occasionally. You're uncommonly civil to that Scottish viper, Robbie. Mind she doesn’t twist you around her little claw.

Vipers don’t have claws, Robbie reminded him weakly and was spared further taunts by a bit of a commotion ahead. His heart came into his mouth, his first thought: Ambush! But this wasn’t that kind of alarm. This was the kind of hooting and whistling that might result from someone riding into the bough of a tree and falling off his horse.

Handing the foot of the stretcher over to Simon, he hurried ahead to find half a dozen men stopped and taunting Davy, who had a sheepish grin on his face. The girl was on the ground walking away from them so fast she was almost running. Robbie soon gathered from the comments that Davy had taken the opportunity to grope the girl. Damn, he thought, as he remounted. Didn’t she have enough to contend with without fear of rape at their hands?