SAMPLE THE STORY BY READING CHAPTER ONE

She woke in the darkness of the night with the wind howling through the trees beyond her bedchamber windows. She lay a moment, knowing the warmth of her blankets, stirring almost lazily, before the memory of that sound which had come to her in her dreams came again to worry her.

Denise de Chabionniere sat upright, her heart pounding. There ought to be no sounds in the night, here at the chateau which was her home. The chateau slept, even as she herself had been sleeping only moments ago.

Yet she had heard...

Ah! What was that sound which had come to tear her from sleep, to interrupt her dreams? It had been a slight thing, no more than the scuffle of a leather poulaine along the floor. It had come from the stone-floored hall outside her bedchamber door. Of that she was certain.

But—who crept along that floor at this time of night?

She threw back the bed-coverings, slid to the edge of her massive four-poster bed, reached out a hand toward the dagger that lay on the small table close by. Her hand closed on its hilt.

She stared through the blackness, vainly seeking to penetrate it. The heavy draperies had been pulled across the large windows to shut out drafts and the cool spring air, so that they also hid any faint moonbeams which might have come to her aid.

Was it her imagination, or had the latch on the big oak door lifted, with a faintly metallic clink? Denise felt her heart thumping crazily, and knew a moment of blind panic.

Surely, no one crept up on her in her own chateau! There were no strangers in this great stone building which lay close to the river Mayenne in Normandy. She knew each and every servant, each and every man and woman who wore the scarlet and yellow colors of her armorial bearings.

None of them would come sneaking about in the night. Then who was it who stood outside her door, waiting?

“Who’s there?” she called.

There was no answer. Only silence.

Denise stirred, rising upward from her bed, her dagger held in her fist. She told herself she had no reason to fear. Was she not at home in this chateau which had been in her family for the past three centuries? Was she not surrounded by servants who loved her, who would have died before letting her come to any harm?

The coldness crept in upon her where she stood clad only in her thin night-rail Her flesh chilled, to match the coldness inside her. Yet the dagger in her hand did not shake.

“Speak to me!” she cried. “Who is there?”

The night was still.

Denise crept forward on bare feet. The paving stones of her bedchamber were frigid underfoot, making her shake. But she never wavered. Closer she advanced toward that oak door, closer. Her hand reached out to touch the latch.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted the latch and tugged.

She could not identify the hulking forms which stood in the hallway, yet she saw enough of them to know that these were no servitors of hers, and she opened her mouth to scream.

A grimy hand stabbed toward her, coming down on her mouth. An arm swept about her, lifting her off the floor and carrying her inward, back into the bedchamber.

Denise tried to scream, but that hand was too large, too powerful. It kept her silent, or almost so. And that arm bore her as though she were an infant.

“Quiet, girl—if you would live.”

It was no more than a whisper in the night, yet its deadly tones chilled her blood. Her wide eyes sought to penetrate the blackness, sought in vain to catch sight of the face of this monster who carried her so easily.

The door clicked into place behind him.

She heard the scratch of steel on flint. An instant later a taper flared. In the sudden light, Denise blinked into the bearded face of this man who held her. She saw now a second man, and yet a third, crowded into her bedchamber.

“Will you be quiet?” asked the man who held her.

She nodded, eyes wide. There was no mercy in any of these ruffians. She could see that in their hard eyes, their faces which seemed carved from granite. They were hired bravos, killers if called upon for that, men without mercy, without honor.

Denise de Chabionniere grew aware that under the thin night-rail, she was naked. So too, did this beast who held her. His face split into a lewd grin and he seemed to hug her the tighter.

“Be quiet then,” he growled. “Or I’ll slit your throat for you.”

Slowly his hand left her face, even as his arm lowered her to the cold stones of her bedchamber floor. Her eyes searched his face.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Yourself, ma'mselle You are our prisoner.”

Denise felt her eyes open even wider. “Your prisoner? But—but I do not understand! I have no enemies. Why should you come like thieves in the night to disturb me in my slumber?”

His grin showed blackened teeth. “Because we are so bidden. Now enough of this. Get you into some garments better fitted for traveling.”

Her chin went up. Into her black eyes came a pride that was almost Luciferian. “I’ll not! No man can make me.”

One of the other rascals laughed. There was a lewdity in that laugh which numbed her. A hand stabbed out, grasped the thin stuff of her night-rail

“Will you not, mistress hoity-toity? Then we’ll strip you naked and dress you ourselves. The choice is yours.”

Her resolve fled before the eager grins of these three chiens. Dogs they were, indeed, so to attack a lone woman in her bedroom. She saw the glinting of their eyes, the eagerness to tear away her garments which they did not bother to dissemble.

“You—you shall not watch me,” she quavered.

“Only to make sure you don’t play us any tricks.”

Slowly his arm about her relaxed. Until now, that arm had held her own arm, the arm which could use the dagger.

If she could stab him, scream and hold off the others with that bloodied steel...

His hand closed on her wrist. Shook it, so that the dagger flipped from her fingers and clattered on the floor.

“No tricks,” the big man grinned. His foot kicked the dagger off to one side. “Now get dressed.”

Denise came close to weeping. She would not—she could not—strip herself naked before these men. And to don her other garments, she would have to do that.

Or—would she?

She turned to the big oaken wardrobe where she kept her gowns. She was to be taken away from the chateau, she assumed, out into the cool night. She would need something warm to keep away the chill.

Her hand lifted out a velvet gown with long sleeves and a low neckline. Yes, this would do, it would keep the coldness from her, and covered by a cloak, would shelter her from the wind. She turned and lifted it over her head, slipping it on down over the night-rail

There were disgusted grunts from the three men.

Denise stared at them coldly. “Did you expect me to strip myself for your amusement?” she grated.

They made no answer, only went on staring at her. Denise swung away and moved toward a small mirror, to arrange her thick black hair. She was busy coiling it into braids when one of the men came over to her.

“No need for all that,” he snarled. “It’s no party we’re taking you to.”

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, continuing to work at her hair.

“To Heaven, mayhap. Or Hell.”

A hand caught her arm, swung her about. The big man pushed her forward so that she stumbled. Another man caught her, his hands going over her person in such a manner as to make her cry out with indignation.

“Be quiet, girl. Or it’ll be the worse for you.”

She opened her mouth to scream shrilly, but a greasy hand was covering her mouth and she was whirled about to stare up at the big man who leered down at her.

“If you want to die here and now, just try yelling. If you’re good, you’ll live.”

His eyes were hard. They told her she could expect no sympathy. These were paid ruffians, they had loyalty only to the man who had paid them.

“Who?” she whispered. “Who pays you for this?”

“Na, na. We don’t reveal those whose money we take. Now get along.”

A hand shoved her, and Denise de Chabionniere came close to stumbling. But she righted herself, and moved quietly out into the hall. The three men came following after her.

The chateau was very silent. And why not? the girl asked herself. Her servants were asleep, there were none around her to come to her aid. These three vagabonds were desperate fellows. Even if she were able to scream out an alarm, what could her servitors do against such as these?

They brought her out into the night, the stars winking in the sky overhead and a cool wind blowing inland off the river. There were four horses waiting in the shadows, she saw. One was for her. Its saddle was fashioned so that a woman might sit it without loss of dignity.

“Mount,” growled someone.

She put her slippered foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle with practiced ease. This was a strange horse under her, that danced a little under her weight. If it had been her own mare, she would have been off and galloping. Ha! Let them try to catch her then, if they could.

But this was a strange mount, it would not budge for her alone. Not until the others were mounted and urging her forward, did the horse under her stir itself. They rode off between the poplars that bordered the chateau driveway.

If it had not been for her three companions, Denise might have enjoyed this moonlight gallop. For the cold wind did not penetrate the heavy woolen cloak which she had slung about her, and she relished its bite on her smooth cheeks. Her thick black hair came free of the braids into which she had twisted it in her bedchamber.

She had often galloped through the fields but never at this hour. Always it had been in sunshine, in the daylight hours. Always, too, she had known where she was going.

But now! Where were these riff-raff taking her?

Denise glanced sideways at the biggest one, the man who had caught hold of her and then disarmed her. His face was bestial, low-browed and with a flat, thick nose, a beard covering his cheeks and jaw. Denise de Chabionniere shivered. This one would hold a knife to her throat and slit it without a concern in the world.

“Where are you taking me?” she cried out when they were on the highway that would bring them eventually into Chartres.

His face flashed its wicked grin at her. “To meet a kinsman of yours, a man who is desirous of making certain that you do not live too much longer.”

Denise gasped. Her kinsman? Of course! That would be her cousin, Charles. Her uncle’s son, a grasping man whose close-set eyes she had never trusted. Charles de Chabionniere, who looked with envy on the broad estates which her father had bequeathed to her when he had died.

How dared he? Even Charles was not such a villain!

Yet unless this man who rode beside her lied, and there was no reason to suspect that he did, it was Charles who had ordered her taken out of her chateau and brought through the cool spring night to—what?

Her death, obviously.

Denise moaned. Charles had always been a covetous person. Not quite a miser, no. But his very soul was mean and shifty, and the sight of golden ecus could make a gleam come into his crafty eyes.

But to order her kidnapped! Slain! It was almost too much to believe. And yet—

Charles owned a manor house not far from Chartres. No doubt it was to that manor house she was being taken. Once she was inside those walls, the world would know no more of her. Fear cut into her, a fear that she strove to mask.

She was too young to die! Life had scarcely begun for her. She was no more than nineteen years of age, all her life lay before her. Too late, she understood that she ought not to have gone into seclusion upon the death of her father. It had cut her off from the world in which her title and wealth permitted her to move.

Tears stung her eyes. Ah, but it was useless to weep. What good could it do? Instead, she ought to take thought upon whatever action she might perform that would help her.

Her full mouth twisted into a wry grimace. Alone and unarmed, what could she do, a mere slip of a girl? Had she a weapon, now...

She thought as she galloped beside the big man, and her mind kept whispering to her that these ragamuffins would be moved by no pleas, no tears of hers. The only thing they understood was money.

How much was Cousin Charles paying them?

Denise said, “I can offer you more than you are being paid. I am even wealthier than the man who hired you. Whatever he offered you, I shall double, if you will consent to take me back to my manor house.”

“Na, na, girl. Once Bertram gives his word, it’s given.”

“Then you’re a fool! Tell me, at least, how much he offers you for my body.”

“A hundred golden ecus.”

“So little?”

She made herself laugh. That laughter rang out, drew curious stares from the two men who rode behind them. Denise turned her head and looked at them.

“Two hundred golden ecus I offer, if you’ll return me to my chateau.”

She heard a gasp, and then an oath.

“Bertram! You hear that?” one man cried.

The other growled, “Double what that other one is paying!”

The big man turned and snarled, “I accepted the price he offered. I’ll hear no more about it.”

They rode on for a little time, and then Denise called, “Fools, the lot of you. To turn aside a chance for so much money.”

“Enough, girl! I’ve given my word.”

Denise peered at him. He rode crouched over the saddle, his ugly face set and grim. What was he thinking? Could he be turning over in his mind that offer she had made?

“Two hundred gold ecus is a fortune,” she murmured.

Bertram turned and raised his hand to her. Denise stared at him, waiting for that blow which would take her across the mouth. Yet it never came. Instead, the man snarled at her to increase the speed of her gallop.

They traveled on, hour after hour.

Dawn brought a grayness to the land through which they galloped. Denise could make out the forms of trees lining the road, and distant meadows. Here and there she could see the shape of a farmhouse, and in the windows, one or two candles glowed with a bright golden light.

With every mile she had ridden, tiredness had brought her more numbness of body, more lassitude of mind. No longer did she offer golden coins to these three cut-purses Instead, it took all her will to cling to saddle and reins, to sway her body to the movement of her horse.

There was nothing now she could do. Fate had arranged her life, it had swept her up from her warm bed and brought her out here into the night and the dawn, and every mile that fled away beneath her horse’s hooves brought her closer to her death.

For Cousin Charles would not suffer her to live.

Ah, no. In order that he be permitted to lay claim to her estates, she must be dead. He would be able to offer proof of her death, with her dead body at hand. He would slay her in some subtle way so that it will seem she had died by natural causes.

Chartres was not so far, now. In a little while they would be seeing the two spires of the great cathedral, they would be taking the turnoff road that would bring them to the manor house where Cousin Charles was waiting.

Denise drooped still more in the saddle. Useless now to offer bribes to these ruffians. She was doomed.

It was then, even as despair laid its hand on her, that Denise heard the faint thunder of approaching hoof-beats She lifted her head to stare, hoping against all possible hope that this might be a rescuer coming her way.

The men had heard those hoof-beats also. Bertram reined in his mount, threw up his hand. They sat like statues, listening. Then Bertram waved an arm.

“Into the woods! Vite! Hurry!”

A hand wrenched the reins from her numbed fingers, yanked at them. Denise was in no condition to fight, she was too exhausted. Besides, this was only one traveler. What could he do against her three burly captors?

Between the trees to one side of the road they brought her and there they waited. The man who had caught hold of her reins had dropped them to stand in the stirrups and peer intently back at the now empty road. The others also had their attention on that thoroughfare; they had momentarily forgotten her.

Denise stared as did the men, wondering what sort of man might be hurrying along this road at such an early hour. Probably a farmer or perhaps a lover returning from a rendezvous. Such a one could be no help to her. He would see her escort and gallop off, telling himself that what occurred here was no business of his.

Her heart was leaden.

Dear God above, help me! Let it be someone who...

Her prayer broke off as the rider swept into view. He was crouched low on the neck of a magnificent stallion, riding as though all the devils of Hell were at his heels. He was clad in a fine woolen cape which flapped in the wind of his passage.

He was young, she saw in the dawn’s dim light, and of a powerful build. A sword hung by his side.

Almost before she knew it, she was digging her heels into her mount, urging it forward even as she opened her mouth to cry out.

“Help! Please, I beg! Help me!”

Bertram lunged for her, a hairy hand upraised to strike, but Denise had moved out of reach, was riding between the trees, still shouting.

The solitary rider had heard her!

He was reining in, putting his right hand to his sword-hilt, half drawing the steel from the scabbard even as he searched the trees. Denise saw his eyes grow big as she came out into view, urging her mount to a faster pace.

Behind her came the men.

“Save me, I beg! In the name of the Holy Virgin, take pity on me!”

He was a big man, she saw, with golden hair under a beaver-skin hat decorated with feathers. She could see little of his garments, other than the big cloak that protected him from the cold and the leather boots on his legs.

He turned his mount and came toward her, and now his sword flashed into view, early sunlight dancing along the length of steel. Perhaps he could see Bertram and the others, because he was looking beyond her and he was scowling.

“What’s this? A trap or—”

Bertram shouted, “On your way, m’sieu’. Do not interfere, or it will be the worse for you!”

One glance he flashed at her, Denise saw, and then his face broke into a reckless grin. “The worse for me, you dog? Do you know to whom you speak?”

“I know not and care not! Raoul! Guy! At him!”

They came with horses at the gallop, knives in their hands. The man on the big stallion shouted almost gleefully, he urged his mount forward, and his long blade was out before him.

He could not hope to take them all, Denise thought. True, he had his sword, but when he ran it into one of them, the others would be upon him, blooding their long Savoyard daggers in his flesh. She had done no more than summon this man to his death!

Yet he laughed harshly, and then his stallion was sidling under him, giving him cutting room with his blade, and at the same time putting Bertram between himself and the others. They could not reach him with their daggers from that position.

His sword slid out and into Bertram. The big ruffian screeched and slid backwards out of the saddle.

The stranger did not pause. He galloped on and turned, blood dripping from his steel, and ran right at the other two. His mouth was curved in a reckless, devil-may-care grin, Denise noted, her heart thumping wildly.

The others came at him, bent far over their horses necks so as to provide her would-be rescuer with as small a target as possible. Yet he came on, kicking the stallion who swerved into the mount ridden by Raoul. The stallion drove the other horse back and sideways so that Raoul had to rise up in the saddle to prevent a fall. As he did, the bloodied sword stabbed out again.

Raoul screamed as the sharp steel bit into him. Then he went tumbling from the saddle to land hard on the ground.

The cut-purse known as Guy drew back. Alone and with only a dagger, he was no match for this man with the sword. He hammered his heels into his horse’s side and went racing off, back along the road in the direction from which he had come.

The man on the stallion watched him go, laughing under his breath. He stared down at the two men on the ground. Then his eyes swung about and he looked at Denise.

She had thrust back the hood of her cloak the better to see, so now his eyes rested on her face and on the thick spill of black hair that the wind blew about. She must be tousled and unkempt, she thought, as she met the stare of those bold blue eyes.

Who was this man who rode so cavalierly this early in the morning? Dared she admit her true identity to him? He might be only a worse brigand than these others.

True, he might not deliver her up to her cousin. But he might want more intimate payment for the service he had rendered her. Denise de Chabionniere lifted her chin defiantly. She was no scullery maid to take this man into the hay for a romp!

As she considered all this, the man dismounted and ran his blade into the ground, cleansing it of the blood. Then he caught hold of Bertram’s cloak and wiped it clean.

His blue eyes looked up at her. “Well? Whom have I the pleasure of saving from dishonor?”