Guardian of Darkness by Kathryn Le Veque Page A

Carington; one caught her across the neck and she put her fingers on the wound, drawing away bright red blood.  She was still directing the horse northward, paralleling the road, when suddenly the forest ended and she was in a meadow, disturbing a flock of pheasants that flew up into the air.  Bress startled, reared up, took a bad step and ended up falling over on her.
    Twelve hundred pounds of horseflesh pushed Carington deep into the soft, moist earth. Had the ground been hard, the fall would have most likely killed her. But the earth was very soft and the horse’s weight did nothing more than shove her down into it.  By the time Bress rolled off of her, the knights were upon her.
    “See here,” one of them shouted, practically falling off his charger and making haste towards her. “You should not have run, wench. Now you have hurt yourself.”
    She was stunned but not hurt.  Arms were reaching down to pull her up and she tried to yank away from them even in her shock.
    “Let me go,” she hissed, struggling. “Take yer hands off me.”
    Two of the knights had her by the arms. “By God’s Bloody Rood,” the same man who had yelled at her spoke. “She is Scots. No wonder she ran.”
    The knight on her other arm shook her roughly. “What are you doing here, girl? Spying?”
    The world was weaving and her ears were ringing, but it did not lessen her resolve to fight. “Let me go!” she shrieked.
    The first knight yanked her hard enough to snap her head back. She ended up pressed against his chest, her small, voluptuous body wedged intimately against him.
    “You are a spy, lass, admit it,” he muttered, spittle on his lips.  “We know how to deal with spies.”
    Her struggles increased to panicked proportions as she struggled to pull herself away from the English dog dripping spit on her shoulder.  As she twisted and pulled, she suddenly noticed in her peripheral vision that Bress was still on the ground.
    “Sweet Jesus!” she exclaimed softly, her panic for herself turning into panic for her horse. “Bress! He’s hurt!”
    The knights would not let her go. A third knight stood beside Bress, eyeing the softly groaning horse critically.
    “Broke his leg,” he said casually, hands on his hips. Then he looked to the fourth knight who had come to stand next to him. “Give me your sword so I can put this beast out of its misery.”
    Carington began to weep loudly. “Nay,” she sobbed. “My sweet Bress. Let me see him. Oh, please, let me see him.”
    The first knight ignored her plea, bending down to throw her over his shoulder.  He was a younger man with blond eyebrows, short of stature but evidently strong. Carington fought and kicked him with every ounce of strength she possessed, trying to aim for his neck. But he wore armor and the helm protected tender spots.
    As he carried her back towards his horse, she caught a glimpse of Bress on the ground, lifting his head as if trying to see where his mistress was. Sobs of grief overcame sobs of terror; she reached out as if to touch the horse, now laying crippled on the ground.  She could see a bloodied right rear leg, near the ankle, and the stiff appearance of something that did not look natural jutting out of his leg.  It was a bone, and she squeezed her eyes shut at the sight.
    Weak with sorrow and agony, she still struggled with the knight who carried her back to his horse. 
    “Please,” she begged through her tears. “Please let me go to my horse. Please let me comfort him.”
    The knight slapped her lightly on the buttocks. “’Tis just a horse, lady. He does not need you.”
    The ring of a broadsword being unsheathed caught her attention. She could see the two knights over by Bress; one of them held his broadsword by the hilt, pointing downward as if to ram it into the ground. But he was aiming at Bress’ heaving chest.  Carington screamed at the top of her lungs as the knight plunged the sword into the soft golden flesh of her beloved