Page 54 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)
D arlei pounded on the chamber door so hard the stout oak panel rattled. She used the heels of her hands and her feet, while calling to the man she knew stood on guard outside.
“Help! Ye must let me out. My maid is dying.”
No response at first, none at all, and she feared the ruse would fail. She stole a look over her shoulder at Orle, who lay sprawled artfully in the center of the floor, her hair and clothing disarrayed and looking satisfyingly unwell, the picture aided by the livid bruise coloring her cheek.
“Oh, by all the powers, send a healer! Will you be responsible for the death of an innocent young—”
The door rattled harder and Darlei heard the bar lift from outside. The panel swung open to reveal the incredulous face of a guard.
Darlei imagined he spent much of his time bored to the bones, stationed outside a chamber where nothing very much happened. She had never before done this, cried out or made a fuss. He did not look above twenty or so, and at the moment did not appear to know what to do.
“Wha’ is it?”
“My maid is ill. I think she is dying. Yon Roisin struck her, and she hit her head when she fell, so. Is there a healer in the house?”
“I dunna ken.” The guard stared at Orle, who appeared not only helpless but quite pretty in her distress, her skirts disordered and her dark hair streaming across the floor. “Go back inside,” he said, for Darlei had pushed out against him. “I will ask the chief.”
Darlei ordered herself to be calm. To appear sane and rational. But the door was open and her inner wild woman had come alive inside her.
“Nay, we must get her to help at once. You carry her.”
“Eh?” He looked astounded.
“Pick her up and carry her. We will go in search of help.”
“But—”
“I command you.”
He danced from one foot to another, staring first at Orle and then at Darlei. Outside the slit window, the rain pounded so hard, Darlei could barely hear her own thoughts.
“Take her to Mistress Roisin,” Darlei urged. “She will know what to do.”
“Aye so.”
He tiptoed into the room, which lay as disordered as the dwelling of two women with very few possessions could be. Gingerly, and with unexpected gentleness, he bent and gathered Orle into his arms.
“Come,” Darlei told him, and stepped from the room.
Her thoughts moved madly. It must be nearly time for supper.
She would likely have been allowed out for that anyway.
But it was not enough for her to escape the room—Orle must also be freed.
Usually, as Darlei had learned, MacNabh was not in the hall at this time of day.
He often only came in to join the women in time for the meal.
The rain might change everything.
Why had she not thought of that? Curse the rain.
She ran down the steps from the upper corridor and into the hall. Her heart leaped sickeningly when she saw that the place was filled mostly with smoke from the eternally ill-burning fire. No other men at arms, no MacNabh. Just his old mother and Roisin.
Both women looked up sharply when Darlei dashed in, waving her arms and with the guard cradling Orle close behind.
“She is dying! You have killed her. You horrible woman.” She ran directly at Roisin—who half started up from her bench at the table—planted both hands at the woman’s half-bared bosom, and pushed.
Roisin went over backward and confusion immediately reigned. Darlei got in what blows she could before Roisin might struggle up. The old woman instantly began to screech and babble. The guard, behind Darlei, cried out.
“Stop that. Stop it now!”
Where was MacNabh? Not here, and that must do for now. But he could come rushing in at any moment in answer to the old woman’s screeching. If he did, Darlei’s attempt was done.
Please , she begged of any powers able to lend an ear. Keep him occupied elsewhere.
Roisin, who outweighed Darlei by half, fought to push her off.
“Ye wretched savage! Get awa’ fro’ me.”
Savage, was she? Yes, and at this moment she felt every bit of it.
She got in a few more blows before Roisin, completely disheveled, climbed to her feet. Darlei followed.
The old woman, eyes staring and mouth a dark cave, gabbled at Roisin, who shook herself like a wet hound and directed a stare of rage at Darlei.
“Wha’ is this?” To the guard she said, “Put her back in her chamber!”
“But—” he began.
Darlei let him get no farther.
“You have near killed my maid,” she accused Roisin.
“I did no’—”
“You struck her. Will you deny it?”
“I did, aye, but—”
“She fell.”
“She did no’—”
“Struck her face, her head. Only look at her!”
Orle made a convincing picture draped over the arm of the guard, who held her rather tenderly.
“Send for the healer,” Darlei demanded of Roisin, who stood trying to catch her breath. “It will be on your head if she dies. And be certain I will tell the king. I will tell him how we have been treated here.”
The guard looked alarmed, and Roisin backed off a step. The old woman continued to babble incoherently.
“Let her die, then,” Roisin said. “Wha’ is one less savage?” But she looked worried. “Where is MacNabh?” she asked the guard.
“Dunna ken, mistress.”
“Go and find him. Put her down—there on the bench.”
The man did so, with exaggerated care.
The old woman cried another spate of words, from which Darlei caught only “stables” and “stramash.”
“What sort o’ stramash?” Roisin demanded. And to the guard, “Go and see.”
He went, and Darlei drew a breath she hoped would steady her thumping heart. The odds had just got better, in her favor. Yet she did not take Roisin for any but a formidable opponent. And if MacNabh came in…
She must act quickly, no matter her terror. They thought her a savage, did they? She would show them how strong a Caledonian woman could be.
“Sit down!” Roisin ordered her. “There, beside your maid. I will no’ ha’ ye trying any o’ your sly tricks.”
Darlei backed toward the fire. She had spotted the only thing in the room she might use as a weapon, an iron spit that had lain there so long it had half rusted away.
She snatched it up, then dropped it with a clang—it was hot. She wrapped her fingers in her skirt, seized it again, and swung it wildly.
“Back. Back!” she told Roisin, who stared in disbelief. “Orle?”
Orle sprang up, which set the old woman to babbling as if she’d seen a spirit.
Darlei screamed. It was a Caledonian yell, one she’d heard her father’s men use when at practice with one another.
One she’d even heard the king employ a time or two.
It burst from her lips even as she swung the spit and took Roisin in the shoulder, knocking the woman back over the bench once again.
Orle shoved the old woman. Given, it did not take much to knock the wizened creature down. She went squawking and screeching in a manner that might almost have been humorous if it were not so terrifying.
“Come, come!” Darlei snatched Orle’s hand, and they dashed out, Darlei still clutching the spit. Out of the hall, through the arched stone opening, and into the rain.
Bless the rain.
It came down so hard she could scarcely see across the bailey, which was not wide. Beyond stood the gate and freedom. She did not know how they would get past the guard stationed there. First they needed ponies—or at least one.
What had the old woman said about the stables?
Darlei drew Orle up against the wall of the house so they could not be seen from above. Plenty of litter here—piles of stone left from repairs, barrels, and the like. Instantly wet to the skin, she tried to keep hold of Orle’s hand, which slid in hers.
There would be ponies in the stables. But as soon as she rounded the end of the house, she could hear that—yes, something was happening there across the yard. Many raised voices. Shouts that could be heard even above the rain.
Not there , by the gods. They would have to go on foot. How far would they get?
“There!” Orle said, and pointed.
Darlei raised her head and narrowed her eyes. In a field just past the stable were several ponies that, to their misfortune, had been left to graze. And forgotten?
MacNabh’s habitual carelessness just might cost him now.
“Come,” she bade Orle again. “While they are occupied within.”
They ran.