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Chapter

Six

Grahame

A blanket of rain soaked the party as they made their way to the meeting point on the grassy lawn south of Clayton House.

Clever of Adara to order them to her rather than meeting on neutral ground.

Though, with the ongoing conflict between the earldoms of Deircia and Bernira, no place was neutral.

At the behest of their earl, Ridley’s reclamation of the land between Grahame’s parents’ and the town of Guston in the Bernira earldom had set the two territories' power balance on a knife’s edge.

Grahame’s cloak did little to protect him from the deluge.

His hands squelched when he pulled on the reins to bring his horse to a halt before the log wall that loomed over them.

No handle graced the towering doors, though Grahame assumed a large iron bar lay on the other side to secure it.

Clayton House’s planked roof peeked over the fence like a curious child.

At least the misery of the rain and the mud were enough to distract Grahame from mulling over the reasons why Adara summoned him.

As the rest of the men approached the fence, the mighty door inched open.

Ridley’s horse paced from side to side, as impatient as the man atop.

Grahame released a breath through his teeth, eyes ahead.

He’d learned the hard way on the journey that when he made eye contact with the others, their sympathetic grins and unsure shrugs made him feel like a lamb on its way to slaughter. Perhaps he was.

“Back up!” came a shout from behind the opening door.

The owner of the voice was tall and broad and laden with his own armor. He planted himself about ten feet from the fence, left hand on the pommel of a wicked blade glinting at his side. A handful of guards followed Adara on her towering black horse.

Grahame clenched his jaw so it would not drop open.

She wore a crimson cloak, the cloth fanned out against the rump of her steed.

Her hood was up but Grahame could make out her regal features within its shadow; chin raised high, black hair swept back from her face, mouth slotted into an impassive line.

Grahame forced himself to breathe. He would not let her beauty steal his breath as well.

Trailing behind her, hands bound, a sack covering her head, was Yrsa.

A rope was wrapped around her neck overtop the cloth covering.

Adara held the end of it in one hand. Yrsa’s blonde hair, singed with dirt, hung lank over one shoulder.

She wore the same trousers and tunic as the day she was taken, and though she appeared unsteady on her feet—likely from not being able to see—she did not appear harmed.

Relief was a wave inside Grahame. Yrsa was alright. He did not know how tightly wound his body was at the prospect of her being hurt until he set eyes on her. It made him sit straighter, with purpose. His surrender would ensure her safety. It was a small price to pay.

As if unable to stop himself, Ridley dismounted, leaving his shield attached to the saddle like an idiot. He strode forward as if putting his hands on his wife was his only goal.

“Halt, Ridley Ward.” Adara’s voice cut through the rain and wind, clear as spun glass.

She tugged on the rope. The action nearly caused Yrsa to trip. Grahame’s throat went dry. He swung himself down, ripping his bag off his horse. Mud squelched underfoot. Within moments he was abreast of Ridley, ready to jump forward to snatch Yrsa from Adara’s hold.

“Ahhh, there he is,” Adara said. Her hands moved on her horse’s reins. Through the sheet of rain, Grahame could have sworn her nose wrinkled.

Rude.

“Grahame Shepherd is here of his own volition in accordance with your mandate that he take the place of my wife.” Ridley’s voice was strong amid the tension that Grahame knew lined his bones.

Somewhere behind them, one of the horses stirred. Grahame kept his eyes on Adara. She sat like a queen looking upon her subjects. Her spine remained straight and the line of her mouth unwavering.

“Indeed. I accept the exchange.”

The words rang through Grahame’s marrow.

He was something to be bartered. Which made sense, though, in his mind, he’d always deemed himself worth very little.

A lowly shepherd, then; when his father had become prosperous, a wild boy who would not tie himself to marriage or responsibility.

Apparently, now he was a worthy enough exchange for the chieftain’s wife.

The thought of him being as valuable as Yrsa made the back of his neck itch with discomfort.

The tall guard said, “Grahame Shepherd, step forward.”

Ridley had his arm out to halt Grahame’s progress before Grahame could move.

“Before I allow my trade to pass into your clutches, I will see my wife.”

Grahame forced himself not to flinch. His trade. That was all he was, then. Grahame forced himself to bury the hurt that surfaced.

The comment was enough, however, to garner a reaction from Adara. A smile wended its way up her lips, revealing teeth, eyes shrinking a little as they creased in delight.

“I do not believe you are in a position to make demands, Ward.” She spat the last name delineating Ridley’s surname and station.

“Though, I give you my word that your wife has gone unharmed.

Send over Shepherd or turn ‘round. Though I will not grant my captive safety a moment longer if you choose to abandon her.”

The growl that sprang from Ridley’s chest was more animal than man. He dropped his arm to draw his sword, his shoulders riding high on his neck. Grahame would not allow a drop of blood spilled because of pride.

He tossed his head to rid his forehead of the hair pasted there and sewed a grin into his mouth as he stepped around Ridley. His friend caught his arm. Before Grahame could stop Ridley’s pull, he was being spun into a mighty hug.

“I will come for you,” Ridley rasped into his ear. The metal of his armour was a strange, slippery thing to hold, but Grahame embraced his friend all the same.

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though he knew it to be a lie. Fear slithered through him. “Make sure you get Yrsa out. Ensure her safety. Afterwards, Lady Wolf can come save me herself.”

A cross between a grunt and a laugh passed Ridley’s lips.

When he let go, Grahame was bereft. With quick strides, head high, Grahame placed himself beside Adara’s horse.

He ignored the way she watched him, as if she was a cat and he an injured mouse.

Longing to pull the sack from Yrsa’s head or give her a hug ate at him as he passed his friend, but she was handed off to the tall guard.

Before he could see her shuffled to Ridley, one of the other guards pulled a short sword and pointed it at Grahame, the blade gleaming as if hungry.

“Move inside. Now.” There was nothing but command in Adara’s tone.

Grahame dared turn back for one last look at his friends.

Everyone’s eyes were locked on Yrsa as she was pushed forward by the guard, falling to her knees in the mud halfway to Ridley.

Grahame turned to help her up, but before he could do so, Adara was rushing at him with her horse, the other men quickly herding him through the gate.

Grahame twisted so he could see the reunion, to know that his sacrifice was for good.

His vision was blocked by Adara’s horse moving in the way.

“Move,” she snarled. Then they were through the closing door.

A bellow of rage rose behind them. Adara’s steed moved to the right just as the door shut. Grahame craned his neck, pushing against a man in a guard’s uniform so he could see what was going on.

Through the rain, Ridley ran at the door.

A blonde haired woman knelt on the ground behind him but her features were round, her nose slightly bulbous—nothing like Yrsa’s sharp countenance.

Ridley ran, arm outstretched, as the door closed.

Barred shut. The last thing Grahame saw was the panic in the eyes of a man who realized, too late, they had been tricked.