Ironhand's Daughter Read online

  “I am of the blood of Gandarin the King,” she said, “and the hawk is mine. Mine to keep, mine to free!” So saying, her arm swept up and she released the jesses. Surprised by the sudden movement, Abby spread her wings and sailed into the air. Not even a glimmer of anger showed on the Baron’s face. For several heartbeats no one moved, and all watched the hawk gliding up on the thermals. Then, without speed, almost casually, the Baron’s black-gloved fist cracked against the side of Sigarni’s face. Half stunned, she staggered back. The Baron moved in. Sigarni lashed out with her foot, aiming for his groin, but her aim was out and she kicked him in the thigh. “Hold her!” said the Baron. She found her arms pinned and recognized the soldiers who had first spoken to her in the market square. The Baron hit her in the stomach, and she doubled forward. His voice echoed through her pain; it was not a raised voice, nor did it contain a hint of emotion. “Stupid woman,” he said. “Now you have forfeited your right to the ten guineas. Any more stupidity and you will face the lash. You understand me? Call the bird!”

  Sigarni looked up into the hooded eyes. Her mouth tasted of blood. “Call her yourself,” she said, then spat full in his face. Blood and saliva dripped to his cheek. Taking a black handkerchief from the pocket of his tunic, he slowly wiped the offending drops from his face. “You see,” he said to the gathered men, “with what we are dealing? A people who have no understanding of law, or good manners. They are barbarians, without culture, without breeding.” His hand lashed out in a backward strike that cannoned his knuckles against Sigarni’s right cheek. “Call the bird!” he ordered. “And if you spit at me again I will have your tongue cut out!”

  Sigarni remained silent. The Baron turned to his falconer, a short, wide-shouldered Lowlander. “Can you call it in?” he asked.

  “I’ll do my best, my lord,” he answered, moving out onto the open ground with hawking glove aloft. He gave a long, thin whistle. High above, Abby banked and folded her wings into a stoop to dive like an arrow. Some sixty feet from the ground her wings spread again and she leveled out. “She’s coming in, sir!” shouted the falconer.

  The Baron turned back to Sigarni. “Ten lashes for you, I think, and a night in the cells. Perhaps you will learn from the experience, though I doubt it. You Highlanders never were given to learning from your mistakes. It is what makes you what you are.” Casually he struck her again, left and right, his arm rising and falling with a sickening lack of speed. Sigarni tried to roll her head with the blows, but the soldiers were holding hard to her arms.

  And then it happened. No one watching quite understood why. Some blamed confusion in the mind of the hawk, others maintained the woman was a witch, the hawk her familiar. But Abby swept down, past the falconer’s outstretched glove and straight toward Sigarni, talons extended for the landing. At that moment the Baron’s fist came up to strike the woman again.

  “The hawk, my lord!” shouted the falconer.

  The Baron turned, arm still raised. Abby’s razor-sharp talons tore into his face, hooking into the left eyebrow, raking down through the socket, and tearing out his eye. He screamed as he fell back, the hawk still clinging to his face, her talons embedded in his left cheek. Abby’s wings thrashed madly as she tried to free herself. The Baron’s hands came up, grabbing the wings and ripping the bird clear. Blood gushed from the face wound. Staggering now, he threw the bird to the ground, and Sigarni watched in horror as one of the riders drew a sword and hacked it through Abby’s neck. The wings fluttered against the clay. Men gathered around the Baron, who had fallen to his knees, pressing the palm of his black glove against the now-empty eye socket.

  The three riders who had arrived with him half carried him from the field.

  The captain of the tourney moved in front of Sigarni. “You’ll suffer for that, bitch!” he told her. “The Baron will have your eyes put out with hot coals, your hands and feet hacked off, and then you’ll be hung outside the walls in an open cage for the crows to feast on you! But first you’ll answer to me!”

  Sigarni said nothing as she was dragged away by the soldiers. A crowd had gathered on the edge of the field, but she did not look at them. Holding her head high she stared impassively at the keep ahead, and the double doors of the outer wall. Abby was dead. Had she given her to the Baron, she would still be alive. She saw again the fluttering wings, and the iron sword cleaving down. Tears fell to her cheeks, the salt burning the cut under her eye.

  The men marched her through the Citadel entrance and then turned left, cutting across the courtyard to a narrow door and a staircase leading down into the dark. Sigarni pulled back as the men tried to force her through. The soldier whose advances she had spurned struck her over the ear with his elbow. “Git down there!” he hissed. She was propelled forward. The stairwell was dark, the stairs slippery. The soldier twisted her arm behind her back, the other man releasing his hold on her and moving ahead. For a short while they descended in total darkness, then the faint glow of a burning torch lit the bottom of the stairs and they emerged into a dungeon corridor. Two men were sitting at a table, playing dice. Both stood as the captain strode into sight.

  “Open a cell!” he ordered. The men hurried to obey.

  Sigarni was still in a daze as they dragged her into the cell. It was large and grey, one wall wet with damp, and it stank of rats’ droppings. There was a small cot in one corner, and there were rusted chains hanging from the walls.

  “How do you like this, bitch?” sneered the red-bearded captain, moving in front of her. Sigarni did not reply. His hand reached out, cupping her breast and squeezing hard. She winced, then brought up her knee, hammering it into his groin. He groaned and fell back. The soldier to her right, the short man, punched her in the side of the head, and she was hurled across the cot.

  “Strip her,” ordered the captain, “and we’ll see how much pleasure the whore can supply.”

  Through her pain Sigarni heard the words, and the strength of panic surged through her. Launching herself from the cot she dived at the first soldier, but she was still groggy and he caught her by the hair. Hands grabbed at her body and she felt her leather leggings being dragged clear. Torchlight glittered from the captain’s dagger.

  “I’m going to put my mark on you, woman. And I’ll hear you beg and scream before this night is over.”

  Chapter Five

  Gwalchmai was sitting on the porch weeping when Asmidir rode up. As the black man climbed from the saddle and approached the old man, he could smell the fiery spirit on Gwalchmai’s breath, and he saw the empty jug lying on its side. “Where is Sigarni?” he asked.

  The old man looked up, blinking. “Suffering,” he said. “She is the sword blade going through fire.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Why do we do it?” asked Gwal. “What is it in our natures? When I was young we raided a Lowland village, stealing cattle. There was a young woman in a field. She had hidden in some bushes. But we found her. We raped her. It seemed good sport, and no harm done.” He shook his head. “No harm done? Now that the Gift is upon me and I know the truth, I wonder if there will ever be forgiveness. Do you ever wonder that, Asmidir? Do you ever think of the Loabite woman you captured in the high mountains of Kushir? Do you lie awake at night and ask yourself why she slashed her wrists?”

  Asmidir straightened as if struck, his dark eyes narrowing. “You are the Gifted One?”

  “Aye. That is my curse, black man. It is only marginally worse than yours.”

  The sunlight was fading and Asmidir helped the old man to his feet, guiding him into the cabin where Lady was stretched out by the dying fire. Asmidir eased Gwalchmai into a chair, then sat opposite the man. Lady rose and put her head in Asmidir’s lap, seeking a stroke. The black man idly patted her, rubbing his fingers behind her ears, and Lady’s tail began to wag. “I need your help,” Asmidir told Gwalchmai. “I need to find a man.”

  The old man leaned forward and gazed into the dying flames. “No, you don’t,” he said.
“On both counts. But I will help you, Asmidir. Oh, yes, I will. First, however, tell me why are we such savages. Tell me that!”

  “What do you want from me, Gifted One? The answers to questions we all know? We do what we do because we can. We hunt and kill because we can. That which is in our power belongs to us, to be used as we desire. Whether it be a round of meat, a wild-born stag, an ancient tree, or a beautiful woman. Now what is it you want to hear?”

  Gwalchmai gave a long sigh, and rubbed at weary, bloodshot eyes with a gnarled hand. “As we sit and speak,” he said, “in the warmth of this cabin, there is a woman in a cell, being beaten, brutalized, and raped by five men. She is bleeding, she is hurt. One of the five is a nobleman, but he is filled with a lust for inflicting pain. But the others are all ordinary men. Men like you and me, Asmidir. I can feel their thoughts, taste their emotions. By God, I can also sense their arousal! And I would like to kill them. But am I different? Was I different in that field? Were you different with the Loabite woman?”

  “She was part of the spoils of war,” said Asmidir, “and no, I do not lie awake at night and think of her. She was used. We are all used. She chose to kill herself. Her choice, Gifted One. But I have no time for these games, nor am I concerned about some whore in a prison cell. Do you know the name of the leader who is coming, or not?”

  Gwalchmai swung around, his eyes bright and glittering. “Yes, I know. I have always known. From the night when the Gate was opened, when Taliesen came to me, and brought me the child to raise.”

  “And will you tell me?” asked Asmidir, masking his impatience.

  “It is not a man.”

  “You make no sense, you drunken old fool. What is it then . . . a tree? A horse?”

  “Are you so stupid that you cannot understand what has been said here?” asked Gwalchmai. “Where are we, for God’s sake? Can you not concentrate that fine mind for a moment?”

  Asmidir sat back and took a deep breath. “Humor me,” he said at last. “Perhaps my mind is not as fine as you imagine.” But the old man said nothing and Asmidir took a deep breath. “Very well, I will play this game. Where are we, you asked? We are in the Highlands, in the cabin of Sigarni the Huntress. And we have been talking about a woman in a cell . . .” He sat bolt upright. “Sweet Heaven, Sigarni is in the cell?”

  “Sigarni is in the cell,” echoed Gwalchmai, tossing a fresh log to the flames.

  “Why?”

  “The Baron desired her hawk. She refused to sell it. In the argument that followed the hawk tore out the Baron’s left eye. Sigarni was dragged away.”

  “But she lives. They have not killed her?”

  “No, they have not killed her. But they are giving her scars she will carry all her life, and her pain will be visited a thousand times upon their countrymen.”

  “What can I do? Tell me!”

  “You can wait here, with me. All your questions will be answered, Asmidir. Every one.”

  Will Stamper sat in the Blue Duck tavern staring into the tankard. It was the fifth jug of ale he had consumed, and it could not deaden the shame he felt. Relph pushed through the crowd and sat opposite him, a bright smile on his face.

  “Looks like I don’t owe you that five coppers anymore, eh? Told you I’d spear her by midnight.”

  “Shut up, for God’s sake!”

  “What’s wrong with you, Will? It were great, weren’t it? Nothing like it! And you had your share.” He chuckled. “And the captain. Humping like a little bunny. Nice to know the nobles get boils on their arses, isn’t it?”

  Will lifted the tankard and half drained it. The ale was strong, and he felt his head swimming. “I’ve never done that before,” he said. “Never will again. I’m not going to wait for the summer. I’m going south tomorrow. I’m finished here. Wish I’d never come.”

  “You’ve got blood on your hand,” said Relph. “Did she bite you?”

  Will jerked and rubbed the dried blood onto his leather leggings. “No. It’s not my blood.” He bit his lip and looked away, but Relph saw the tears spilling to his cheeks.

  “What’s got into you? Is it the boy? He’ll get over the whoop, Will. I’m sure he will. Come on, mate, this isn’t like you at all. Here, let me get you another drink.” Relph stood, but Will reached out and took hold of his arm.

  “It doesn’t bother you, does it? She was screaming. She was cut, bitten, thrashed. It doesn’t bother you?”

  “It didn’t bother you at the time, either. And no, why should it worry me? Worse’ll happen to her tomorrow. At least she went out with a good rut, eh? Anyway, the captain told us to. So why not? God’s teeth, Will, she’s only a whore. Whores were made for sport.”

  Will released his hold and Relph moved back into the crowd. He gazed around him through bleary eyes, listening to the laughter of the revelers, and thought of Betsi; picturing her in that cell. Relph returned with two tankards. “Here, get that down you, mate. You’ll feel better. There’s a dice game back at the barracks at midnight. You fancy a bet?”

  “No. I’ll get home. Got to get Betsi to pack ready for tomorrow.”

  “You’re not thinking this through, Will. No one will be taking on mercenaries down south. What will you do?”

  “I don’t care.”

  Relph leaned forward. “You have to care, Will. You have a family to support, and a sick son. You can’t go dragging them out into the countryside. It’s not fair on them. Look, I don’t know why this has got to you so bad. You stuck a few inches of gristle into a few soft warm places. Now you want to ruin your life and your family’s lives. It don’t make no sense. You get home and get a good night’s sleep. It’ll all look different in the morning.”

  Will shook his head. “What will be different? I’m forty-two years old. I’ve lived my whole life by an iron set of rules which my dad beat into me. You ever heard me lie, Relph? You ever seen me steal?”

  “No, you’re a regular saint, mate. They ought to put up statues to you. But what’s the point you’re making?”

  “I just betrayed everything I’ve lived for. Everything . What we did there was wrong. Worse than that, it was evil.”

  “Now you’re talking daft. What do you mean evil? She was a slag, and I’ll bet she’s been jumped before. What pigging difference does it make? She’s dead anyway, come morning. You heard the captain, they’re going to put out her eyes and hang her in the old cage. Bloody Hell, Will, you think what we done is any worse than that? Come on, I’ll walk you home. You look all in.”

  Relph stood and helped Will to his feet. The big man staggered, then headed for the door.

  “I should have stopped it,” mumbled Will. “Not joined in. Oh, God, what will I say to Betsi?”

  “Nothing, mate. Nothing at all. You just go home, and you sleep.”

  The relief guard was called Owen Hunter; the man he replaced told him of the sport he had missed. Owen was a Lowlander, married to a harridan named Clorrie who made his life a misery. As he sat at the dungeon table in the flickering torchlight, he tried to remember the last time he had enjoyed a woman. It was more than three years—if you didn’t count the alley whore.

  He had smiled when the guard told him of the afternoon’s entertainment, and even managed to say, “That’s life,” when the man pointed out that it should have been Owen’s shift, except that the Lowlander had swapped it earlier that day.

  But now, as he sat alone, he allowed his bitterness to rise. Of all the women to choose he had married Clorrie: sharp-tongued, mean-spirited Clorrie. Life’s a bastard and no mistake, thought Owen. Like the other soldiers, he had heard of the incident when the Baron lost his eye. Even now the surgeons were at work in the upper room of the keep, plugging the wound and feeding the Baron expensive opiates.

  There was no sound in the dungeon corridor, save for the occasional hiss from the torches. Owen stood and stretched his legs, remembering the last words of the man he replaced: “What an arse on her! I tell you, Owen, she was a jump to remember.”
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  Owen lifted a torch from its bracket and walked past the four empty cells to the locked door. Pulling open the grille he peered inside. There was no window to the cell and the torchlight did not pierce the gloom. Slipping the bolt, he opened the door. The woman was lying on the floor, her legs spread open. There was blood on her face and thighs and on one of her breasts. Owen moved closer. She was still unconscious. Despite the blood he could see that she was beautiful, her hair gleaming silver and red in the torchlight. His eyes scanned her body. Even the hair of her pubic mound was silver, he noticed. She was slim and tall, her breasts firm. Owen saw that one of her nipples was bleeding, a thin trickle of red still running down to her side. Kneeling alongside her Owen ran his hand up her thigh, his fingers stroking the silver mound, his index finger slipping inside her.

  He made his decision and rose, planting the torch in a wall bracket. Swiftly he stripped off his leather leggings and knelt between the open legs, pushing his hands under her thighs to draw her onto him. Why not? he thought. Everyone else has had their pleasure. Why not me? Why shouldn’t Owen Hunter have a little fun?

  His last sight was of the woman suddenly rearing up. His own hands were locked beneath her thighs, but he saw her right hand stab forward, felt the terrible pain as her first two fingers struck his eyes. Then all was pain and an explosion of light that was unbearable.

  Sigarni dragged her fingers from the oozing sockets and groaned. Her ribs hurt, but that was as nothing compared with the pain within. She pushed the body of the guard from her, then rolled to her knees. Nausea rose in her throat and she vomited. Her head was pounding, her body begging her to lie down, to rest, to heal. Instead she forced herself to her feet. The guard began to moan. Dropping to her knees she pulled his dagger from his belt and plunged it through the nape of his neck. His legs spasmed, one foot striking the narrow cot. Blood filled the man’s throat and he began to choke. Dragging the dagger clear she held the point over the center of his back and threw her weight down upon it. The blade slid between his ribs, skewering the lungs. Now he was still. A pool of urine spread out from beneath him. Sigarni stood again, then sat on the cot looking around the cell, taking in every block and stone, every rat hole. Her leggings had been thrown into a corner. Retrieving them, she dressed. The cord of the waist had been cut. Dragging the guard’s belt clear, she pierced a new buckle hole in the leather and strapped it to her waist.