“Aye, well, since ye already hate me, m’lady, ’tis about to get worse.” He turned to the still gasping Tasgall. “Cut off her armor. I want her left in nothing but her léine and trews.” He gave a satisfied nod. “And check all her bindings to ensure they’re still well knotted.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Tasgall dug in his sack in search of the shears he used to repair Thorburn’s hauberk. “Will she not be faster then, m’lord? Lighter on her feet to run?”
“Nay,” Thorburn said, his glare still locked with hers. “She willna be on her feet but over my shoulder like a sack of grain.”
“Ye are wounded, brother. Yer shoulder. Knee.” Ross smiled down at the fierce maiden. “I would be happy to tote yer pet for ye.”
“Nay.” Thorburn stood taller, energized by the challenge. If it was a battle this wee vixen wanted, then a battle she would have. “I will have no problem carrying this one.”
It took Tasgall a bit of time to cut through the chain mail and strip it away. “’Tis a pity to ruin such workmanship,” he commented while peeling off the strips of woven metal and plates engraved with elaborate knots and whorls. Upon reaching a layer of leather covering another layer of padding, he looked up at Thorburn. “All of it but her tunic, aye?”
“Aye.” Thorburn supervised with his arms folded across his chest.
“What if she doesna wear a léine?”
Thorburn sensed dangerous ground here. His code still stood. No harm or humiliation to women or children. What he did with this one could very well undermine his longstanding policy. Even claiming her as a spoil of war risked making him look a hypocrite. Order and respect must be maintained above all else. “If ye dinna see the hem of a tunic, leave her covered with that innermost haubergeon of cloth.”
After a disappointed tip of his head, Tasgall bent to the task.
Stripped of her battle shell, the sparring hen was now a quarter of her original size. No wonder he had thought her male. Even now, clothed in nothing but her linen tunic and dark trews, whatever curves she had were still well concealed by the oversized shirt that reached almost to her knees.
He pulled her to her feet, then bent and threw her over his uninjured shoulder. Still gagged and with her hands tied behind her back, her ladyship could do little else but hang there and ride. Or so he thought. Once again, the wily minx impressed him with her ability to adapt to anything he did. Within sight of camp, a warm wetness flooded his shoulder and spread down his chest. The conniving wench had gifted him with a healthy soaking of piss.
With a determined snort, he shifted his hold and continued walking. “Ross says some men pay extra for that in the brothels.” Perhaps he should have left her lashed to a tree. It would have been a hell of a lot less trouble. Although, her warm softness bouncing against his cheek wasn’t entirely unpleasant. And through the scent of sweat and piss, her unmistakable womanly musk worked its magic, reminding him that a lovely maid hadn’t warmed his bed in several long weeks. But now, weary and sore as he was, he doubted very much if he possessed the energy or patience to attempt a seduction of this spiteful wee hedgehog.
With all eyes locked on him, he limped into camp with his prize over his shoulder. When he reached his tent, he dumped her to the ground. “Proper shackles on her wrists and ankles,” he ordered, handing the spear he had used as a crutch back to Tasgall. “Then stake her. Inside my tent. To the back wall, ye ken? Ye’ve seen how she is. If she escapes, it’s yer arse.”
“She willna escape, m’lord,” Tasgall swore with certainty. “I grant ye that.”
“Ale, m’lord?” Hendry offered a welcomed tankard that Thorburn drained, then held out for another.
“I’ve an arrow for ye to dig out, Hendry, but a healer’s been called for the knee.”
The ruddy-haired lad, short and plump as a partridge, wrinkled his freckled nose. “Got water set to boiling and ready. A fine broth, some roasted meat, and fried bread as well, m’lord.”
“Ye’re a good lad, Hendry. Just more ale, a good wash, and a change of clothes for now.” Thorburn limped into his large tent, as furnished and comfortable as any private room in a keep. As constable of theGallóglaigh, he expected nothing less.
“I’ll set more water on the fire, m’lord,” Hendry assured, then rushed away to put all requests in motion.
The rattle of chains and ringing ping of a hammer hitting iron drew Thorburn’s attention to the far side of the tent. Tasgall had worked quickly. Their guest sat with her back against a heavy trunk. Her shackled hands were now in front of her with her arms looped around the one knee she could bend to her chest because of the length of the chain between the shackles on her ankles.
“Leave her gagged, m’lord?” Tasgall asked as he finished driving a second iron stake through another ring in the chain beside her left ankle.
“Aye. For now.” He wasn’t in the mood to be spit at again and, at this point, wouldn’t be surprised if the wench breathed fire. “Two stakes?”
“Aye, m’lord.” The lad gave a serious nod. “I’ll no’ be risking yer ire ’cause of her escaping.”
“Good lad.” Thorburn gimped across the furs spread inside the tent. “Strip me down so Hendry can see to the arrow. I dinna ken how badly it damaged the mesh.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Tasgall untucked the extra length of Thorburn’s long leather belt, then unbuckled it. He frowned down at the stained leather as he hugged the sheathed sword and dagger attached to the belt under one arm. “This is wet, m’lord.”
“Our guest christened me with piss.” Thorburn tossed his helm and dagger atop the trunk Tasgall used for cleaning and repairs. “My hauberk will want a good oiling once ye’ve cleaned and repaired it.” After a glance at his scowling prisoner, he added, “I’m sure Lady Viper’s piss corrodes like acid.”
“More ale for ye, m’lord.” Hendry held out a tankard while casting a side-eyed glance at the woman. “And what about her, m’lord?”
“What about her?”
“Be she allowed food and drink?”
