Several of the knights nearest to the woods—and to her—turned, staring directly at the tree she had been hiding behind. They saw her at once. Mary did not need any more encouragement. She lifted her skirts and fled.
“Halt! Halt now, wench!”
She heard them crashing through the woods. She ran as hard as she could. Having been raised with six brothers, she was a good runner, fast for a girl, but she was unused to the clumsy clogs. Abruptly she tripped hard and went sprawling down in the grass.
“Oh ho!” shouted one of the men with lecherous laughter. Just as she gained her feet, he was upon her, his hand closing on the folds of her tunic at the nape of her neck. He jerked her back to him.
Mary screamed as he reeled her in, and when she was close enough, she tried to kick him in the groin. He easily evaded her, and both he and his companion laughed at her very real efforts of resistance.
He immobilized her, enfolding her in his arms. Mary writhed, but quickly she went still. There was no way to escape his hold. She fought to catch her breath.
“What’s this?” Her captor’s eyes widened as he got his first glimpse of her. His friend was startled into silence as well.
The veil had slipped, and they could clearly see her features. Mary was well aware that she was beautiful, for she had been told so many times. Indeed, traveling minstrels frequently sang about Princess Mary and her incomparable beauty. She had a pale, perfect complexion, a small, slightly upturned nose, high cheekbones, and an intriguingly heart-shaped face. Her eyes were almond-shaped and green, her mouth full and red.
Yet Mary knew that beauty of the flesh was unimportant. That concept had been drummed into her head by her mother since she was a child, so she had never cared one way or the other about her looks, until Doug had told her how beautiful he thought her to be just yesterday. And until now. Until she was caught by these two Norman knights whose intentions were obvious. Desperately she tried to think, her wide, catlike eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and fear.
“Ha!” the young knight laughed, pleasure transforming his countenance. “Look at this! Look at what I have found!”
“Ahh, Will,wefound her—wefound her,” his cohort responded. The other men in the camp had heard Mary’s screams and began to gather around the trio.
“Usually I don’t mind sharing, Guy, but not this time,” Will replied, tightening his hold on Mary’s arms.
But Mary wasn’t struggling. Wasting her energy was pointless, especially if she needed to conserve her strength in order to resist these men. The two knights began to argue over her fate, while another dozen knights ringed them, jeering and leering. Despair welled and her cheeks flamed. Unfortunately she understood Norman French perfectly and missed not one of the lecherous remarks. She thought rapidly. She would be raped like any common peasant unless she revealed her identity. But if she revealed her identity, she would be held hostage, at great cost to Malcolm and Scotland. Both outcomes were unacceptable. She must find a middle ground.
A flash of dull silver color caught Mary’s attention. She saw a knight emerging from the tent, striding towards them. Both Will and Guy fell into silence as the older man approached, elbowing through the circle of men. “What’s the ruckus?” His cool gray eyes fell on Mary. “You are disturbing Stephen. What have we here? Tonight’s entertainment?”
Mary had had enough. “I nae be amusement fer the likes a yae!” She had decided to continue her disguise for as long as possible, and she spoke in a heavily accented burr. “Norman pig!”
“Come now, girl, don’t you like Normans?” The older man was slightly amused.
“I hate ye all, damn ye to hell!” Mary spat. She was quaking inside, but she would never let them know it. Then her heart lurched. For behind the man, the tent flap moved again, this time to expose Stephen de Warenne.
He limped out, leaning heavily on a staff. His face was drawn in pain and gray in pallor, but his eyes were bright and keenly intelligent. They lanced the small group. “What passes?”
Mary inhaled. Although a stone’s throw separated them, he was bigger than she remembered, bigger and more powerful and more frightening. And he was close to being naked; he had shed his mail and most of his clothing. He wore only a short undertunic which just covered his groin, calf-high boots, and a cloth bandage, high up on one of his powerful thighs.
Intently he met her regard.
Mary swallowed. She had seen men’s legs bare before, of course, but Scotsmen, decently clad in knee-high kilts and tall leggings. Now she quickly looked away, her face already flaming at the male nudity facing her.
“Will appears to have caught us tonight’s repast, Stephen,” the older man said.
Mary tensed, glancing up. Stephen’s gaze turned to one of inspection. He did not respond to Neale as his gaze slid down her slim body. Mary’s heart thudded. She did not like the way he was looking at her, and if he thought to cow her, he would not—even though shewascowed. She glared furiously back.
“Bring her to me, Neale,” Stephen ordered, and then he ducked and disappeared back into his tent.
Neale suddenly chortled, a sound at odds with his stem, battle-scarred face and cold, iron-gray eyes. “It appears that his lordship is not as badly off as it appears, and I do think he has settled your argument, lads.”
Mary was paralyzed by the meaning of Stephen de Warenne’s words. The old knight’s comment brought her to life. “No!” she cried. Then, remembering her disguise, she reverted to her burr. “Nae! Nae!”
Despite her protests, Neale grabbed her arm and propelled her towards the tent. Mary was a small, slender girl, but nevertheless she fought him every step of the way, digging in her heels, twisting, frantically trying to kick him. He ignored her, dragging her with him as easily as if she were a small child.
Laughter sounded. The men found her pathetic struggle and imminent fate amusing. Hot tears blurred her vision as she heard the coarse jests being bandied about. She could not help but understand what was being so crudely said. Graphic references were made about the sexual prowess and physical endowment of the man she was being brought to. “His lordship will probably kill her,” someone finally joked.
Terror seized her. And then it was too late. Neale was pushing her ahead of him into the tent.
Inside it was dark. Mary stumbled when Neale released her but caught herself before falling. She was trembling and out of breath as her eyes adjusted to the shadows. She finally saw him. Her enemy was half-sitting on the pallet of fur-lined blankets, propped up by his saddle. His presence seemed gigantic in the small tent, and a feeling of claustrophobia and imminent doom swept over her.
