“He was nothing to what they claim the Red Devil is.”
“True, but the Red Devil fights fair. Pickney deals in backstabbing and treachery. I thought that gave him a chance.” Henry frowned at their prisoner. “Now, I wonder. He has overcome Pickney’s treachery ’til now. The Red Devil could prove a warrior great enough to win despite all Pickney puts against him. The man could even know a treacherous trick or two himself, using them when he is driven to it.”
“So, do we leave? Flee this trap ere it closes shut on us?”
“Nay, we cannot do that. Pickney would see us dead for it. We have set forth on this path and must walk it now. What we can do is make sure the Red Devil’s lady comes to no harm at our hands.”
“But we stole her!” John nearly screamed the words, his fear gaining a tight grip on him.
“Pickney ordered us to. We are but serfs, men-at-arms. That might save us. He will strike at Pickney and that fool boy, Robert, not at their minions. So it will stay if we are careful with his lady. Now, cease being such a coward. We must eat and rest. Pickney expects us early on the morrow. Best we be there.”
When John sullenly obeyed Henry, Gytha inwardly cursed. For a brief moment she had let herself hope that John’s rising fear would cause the man to flee, run from both Thayer and Pickney. Sadly, Henry had not only more wit but the sort of calm, considering nature that held men like John in place. She had hoped to lessen the number of her opponents by one or, even better, have John’s fears infect Henry so that both men ran. Luck, however, was clearly not with her—not yet.
“So,” she mused silently, “I will get as much ease as I can.” Holding out her bound hands she called, “I must be untied.”
Henry looked at her, then whooped with laughter. “Do you think us witless, woman?”
Biting her lip, Gytha refrained from answering that. She wanted to frighten them into making her journey as easy as possible. Responding to that remark with the vicious words on the tip of her tongue would only anger them and would gain her nothing at all.
“Do you see what these bindings have done?” After both men frowned at her swollen wrists, she tugged up her skirts just a little to reveal that her ankles were in as bad a condition.
“’Tis not enough to fret over, woman.”
“Nay? ’Tis little surprise that you cannot discern what trouble might result. I doubt either of you have children.” She hastily swallowed yet another insult which had nearly followed those words. “Such swelling can be very bad for a woman with child.”
“Whether it can or cannot matters little.” Despite his growled words, Henry moved to stand over her and frowned down at her wrists. “How can we watch you, keep you at our side, if we unbind you? Silly wench.”
“I am sure such clever men as you can think of some way.” She knew she had not been able to hide all the contempt in her voice but felt they would attribute it to aristocratic arrogance. “You can think of it whilst I indulge in a moment of privacy”—she held out her bound wrists—“as soon as you untie me.” When he hesitated, she pressed, “There is another thing a woman carrying a child has a great, and I fear constant, need for—moments of privacy. If you hesitate much longer, you will know I speak the truth and we shall both suffer some embarrassment.”
As he finally untied her wrists and ankles, Henry muttered, “I catch your meaning, but you are not going off alone.”
“Going off alone is what a moment of privacy means.” She needed his help to stand, much to her chagrin.
“Well, yours will be me turning my back. Come on.”
Stumbling, Gytha kept pace with him as he strode towards some bushes. Her need was so desperate that she made no attempt to argue with the man. She doubted there was any argument that would sway him anyway. Despite knowing all of that, she cringed in embarrassment as he stood close by, his back to her, while she crouched in the bushes. It was humiliating. Adding to that was her need to use his burly strength to return to the campsite. She was stiff and, although the swelling in her wrists and ankles had lessened it did so painfully.
Once seated by the fire, John thrust a bowl of thick gruel at her then a crooked wooden spoon. The mess looked lumpy and far from inviting, but she was too hungry to quibble. There was little taste to it, and the texture was barely tolerable, but she ate it all and drank the somewhat sour wine handed to her. Her body, needing sustenance for the child it nurtured, helped her ignore all the inadequacies of the cuisine.
When Henry approached her with the rope, she backed away. Only now had the pain and swelling fully eased. She did not think she could bear its return. To avoid it, she very nearly swore that she would not try to escape.
“Now, I will not be tying you up as before, woman,” Henry said in a gruff voice.
“You have to tie her,” protested John. “She would run otherwise.”
“I mean to tie her to me—waist to waist. Your choice, woman.”
Covering her rounded stomach with her hands, she frowned slightly. “You cannot bind my waist. The child…”
“I will tie it above the rounding. Well?”
After a brief hesitation she nodded. Anything had to be better. If some discomfort came from the arrangement, she would mention it after the very first twinge.
The way he tied them, the rope encircling her just below her breasts and him around the waist, forced a certain amount of proximity. She pushed away her distaste. Even when she was made to share a blanket with the man as they settled down for the night, she kept quiet. Putting as much distance between them as possible, she closed her eyes, seeking the comforting oblivion of sleep.
“There they be.”
At Henry’s gruff announcement, Gytha turned to look where they were headed. Her only restraint was a rope around her tying her firmly to the wagon. Since the knotted end of that rope was right next to Henry, she had no chance to untie herself, but she doubted she would even have tried. Jumping from a rapidly moving wagon would be more risk to her child than she was willing to take. However, when she caught sight of Charles Pickney, she briefly contemplated just such an action, thinking it might well be the lesser of two evils.
