Even as she reached its opening, the tent was surrounded by a mixture of pages and grown men-at-arms. This time Thayer was taking no chances. There would be no place for one of the attackers to creep up to the tent unawares. She stumbled inside and a man-at-arms quickly yanked the door flap closed behind her.
“What is happening?” cried Edna as she clung to Gytha.
Moving to hold on to her cousin, Margaret whispered, “Is it another attack?”
Despite the fear gripping the two women, Gytha found comfort in their closeness. “Aye. Another. There was some warning.”
“So the men were not caught by surprise?” Margaret asked.
“Not fully. I saw them bracing for battle just before I saw armed men rush at them from the shadows.”
“Thieves? Have we landed in a nest of robbers?”
“I would say nay, Edna. Too many men and too well armed.”
“Robert and his uncle again?” Margaret finally eased her grip on Gytha but stayed close to her cousin’s side.
“Mayhap. I dare not say. We are, after all, in a trouble-plagued area.”
They fell silent, the sounds of the fierce battle outside the tent consuming all their attention. Gytha found herself afraid for Thayer. It seemed strange that she had felt little the first time he had fought for their lives. Briefly, she worried if she was having some kind of premonition, then quickly shook the thought away. Her lack of real concern the first time had been due to a lack of knowledge of the cost of battle, to a lack of any real depth of feeling for her new husband. She told herself that again and again in an attempt to make herself believe it as, hands painfully clenched, she prayed for the battle to end.
Thayer fought and cursed with equal ferocity. His usual cool-headed acceptance of the violence was lacking. He knew it was because Gytha was close at hand, because she could suffer if he failed to turn back the attackers.
It was as the battle waned, the attackers edging into full retreat, that Thayer found himself in the greatest danger. Jerking his sword free of a slain man, he turned slightly to find himself facing two large foes. They looked fresh, untouched by the battle raging around them. He knew he was hot and sweaty, weariness close at hand.
“Look about you, dogs. Your pack begins to tuck its tail between its legs. Best you join them.” Thayer quickly drew his dagger, adding its lethal if limited strength to that of his sword.
“Then we shall have to send you to hell a little quicker than we planned,” one of the men yelled even as he swung at Thayer.
He easily blocked that swing, but Thayer found it less easy to elude the second man at the same time. The skill of the men was average yet, by combining in their attack, it strained his own skills to the limit. Roger, who would customarily be at his back, had been cleverly separated from him. He would need luck to escape unscathed.
His major concern was in preventing either man from circling around behind him. He needed to keep both men in sight. That was going to require a great deal more tiring concentration than they would need to exert. Their grim smiles told him they were well aware of each of the disadvantages he suffered.
For a while he held them off without too much trouble. They tested his reputed strength, his rumored skill. They also studied his manner of fighting. Thayer knew that, if they had any wit at all, they would soon decide on the best method of attack. He needed to strike a telling blow before they could reach such a consensus.
At last a chance came for him to even the odds. He blocked a lunge from one man and turned to find the other open, unprepared to defend himself. Thayer swiftly lunged, his sword cutting deep into the man. As he pulled back, his victim crumbling to the ground, the second man struck again. Although he acted quickly enough to stop the strike from being a fatal one, Thayer felt his opponent’s weapon cut a deep furrow in his sword arm. Staggering back a little, Thayer tried to prepare himself for a further assault, but the strength was already leaving his sword arm, seeping out along with the blood from his wound. He fought a sense of inevitability. In his mind, accepting defeat was the surest way to bring it on.
A cold smile seeped across his enemy’s face. Thayer knew his weakness had been seen. Gritting his teeth against the pain he raised his sword to deflect the man’s blow. Agony tore through him with the shock of that blow. He stumbled backwards in an awkward retreat, fighting the encroaching blackness of unconsciousness. In what he knew was a vain, somewhat pitiful, attempt at defense, he raised his dagger to check his assailant’s next sword thrust.
Instead of cutting through his flesh, the assassin’s sword was checked in the midst of its downswing by another sword. When Roger came into view, fiercely driving the enemy back with his artfully wielded sword, Thayer allowed himself to give in to his weakness. Cursing softly, he sank to his knees and watched Roger end the life of his assailant. It was not until the man’s death scream had gurgled into silence that Thayer realized what noise he could hear was that of the waning of the battle. The attackers were routed, running for their lives.
Crouching by Thayer, Roger half-smiled, but the look in his eyes revealed his concern. “’Tis bad?”
“Nay. It but bleeds freely enough to sap my strength. We have won?”
“So it appears. I have no quick guess as to how much the victory cost us, however.”
“I pray ’tis not too high.”
“Not too high, but high enough,” said Merlion as he stepped up to them. “Two dead, one who will surely die from his wounds, and four wounded enough to need a great deal of tending to before they can lift a sword again.” He looked at Thayer’s wound. “Mayhap five?”
“Nay. Weakening though it is for the moment, ’tis not serious.”
“Your wife will be pleased to hear that, though she might question your judgment.” Merlion nodded towards the tent.
Following Merlion’s gaze as Roger helped him to his feet, Thayer saw Gytha, Margaret, and Edna cautiously emerging from the tent. “Gytha is a sensible woman.”
The waning din of battle having drawn her outside, Gytha looked around the campsite. Yet again a warning had come in time to save them from the worst of it, although she saw enough to realize that this attack had cost them more than the earlier one. She did not ponder that long, however. Her main concern was finding Thayer. When she finally espied him, she cried out softly. He was covered in blood and needed Roger’s help to stand. Hiking up her skirts, she raced over to him, Margaret and Edna at her heels. She did not stop in her frantic advance until she was directly before him, then clutched at his torn, bloody tunic.
