Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones #2)(57)

Both were soon drenched. Though Robert’s cloak didn’t succeed in keeping Beth dry—nothing short of a roof over her head could accomplish that in this deluge—it did provide a modicum of warmth, as did Marcus when he cautiously eased closer until his shoulder brushed hers.

Her hair hung about her face in loose, sodden curls. Water beaded on her spiked eyelashes and dripped off the tip of her nose.

And still Beth did not move.

The storm seemed to rage for hours.





Robert studied the abandoned campsite. Blood painted the ground and foliage where Sir Winston and Sir Miles had fallen. Flies buzzed around the bodies of five men Miles and Winston had slain before sheer numbers had defeated them.

The marauders had left both their dead and a few belongings, fleeing into the forest.

“How many were there?” Robert asked young Alwin, Winston’s squire.

“Mayhap a score.”

Twenty armed men against two knights and two squires.

“Why did they not kill you all?”

The boy swallowed hard. “I knew Sir Winston could not win against such numbers.”

Behind them, Stephen grunted. “He would have fought to the death rather than accept defeat.”

Alwin nodded. “I knew as much, my lord. So, I told Hugo to ride for help.”

Hugo, Sir Miles’s squire nodded. “I did not wish to leave the battle, but hoped the others who searched for Lady Bethany’s brother would be nigh enough to help us.”

Both boys bore minor wounds, their clothing marred by rips and smudges of dirt and blood.

“When I saw Sir Winston sorely wounded,” Alwin continued, “and saw Sir Miles stumble, I turned and called into the forest behind us, Over here! Quickly, my lords! Ere they flee!”

“And I,” Hugo said, “upon hearing him, stopped and called back, altering my voice so it would appear more than one man answered.”

“Swift thinking,” Robert praised them. “They believed you were not alone.”

“Aye, my lord,” the boys responded.

“Osbert!” Robert called.

From the trees behind the knights, a man trotted forward, four hounds at his heels.

At Robert’s nod, the man guided the hounds into the campsite.

Noses to the ground, tails wagging, the dogs swiftly caught the marauders’ scent and took off into the trees.

Robert and the others launched themselves onto their destriers and raced after them.

The dogs led them to another body, then continued on to an unconscious man Robert knew would be dead by nightfall. Both had clearly been amongst the group that had wounded Sir Miles and Sir Winston. And Robert did not doubt that they were also the blackguards who had injured Davie and slain the boy’s father and older brothers.

Were they also the same men who had attacked Beth and her brother?

Fury simmered beneath the surface as Robert gripped Berserker’s reins.

Onward the hounds led them as the sky above them blossomed with the colors of sunset and daylight began to dim.

“There!” Michael shouted.

Robert followed his gaze.

Up ahead, men fleeing through the forest halted at Michael’s cry.

Robert drew his sword.



Berserker lunged forward.

The marauders turned to fight.

Loosing mighty war cries, Robert and his knights descended upon the ragged band. Steel met steel, glanced off and slipped past into flesh. Cries of pain erupted all around him as Robert deflected a blow, then slid from the saddle and fought in earnest.

Curses flew and blood spewed as bodies began to fall.

Sellswords. Men who did not care who they slew as long as they were paid the proper coin for it. Each fought with surprising skill. And not one of them would allow himself to be captured. Nor would they reveal who directed their actions.

“Who hired you?” Robert roared, his powerful swings driving his latest opponent backward. He needed a name. Needed to know who the cursed whoreson was who kept plaguing his lands and people. Needed to know where he could find the bastard, because Robert did not think his enemy was amongst those who fought. Needed to know if the man held Beth’s brother captive. “Is he here among you?”

The man merely growled, refusing to reveal the source of his coins.

Robert continued to hammer him with blows the man soon struggled to deflect. “Tell me!”

The man tripped on a body behind him. His sword arm lost strength as he fought for balance, offering little defense against Robert’s next strike.

Robert swore when blood spurted from his opponent’s throat. He hadn’t meant to the kill the man. But years of training and battle had rendered dealing death blows instinctual.

Another swordsman leapt over his fallen colleague and attacked.

Robert deflected his blow, then delivered one of his own. And another. And another.

When the fierce battle ended, Robert and his men all remained on their feet, though some bore minor wounds.

All of the marauders lay dead.

He looked at his men. “Did any of you get a name?”

Heads wagged from side to side as most of the knights winced or grimaced over having failed to deliver what Robert had asked of them.

Breathing hard, Michael motioned to the last man he had felled. “Every one of them chose to fight to the death rather than reveal who hired them.”