Page 7 of Ena’s Surrender

“You’ll change your mind,” he said, cocksure of himself. “Even after I steal your goat.”

His hand fumbled at his belt and her heart stopped mid-beat. He had lied. He did mean to rape her.

In that fraction of an instant where she remained frozen in place by fear, he could have taken her. But it was not her body he wanted. Instead, he lifted her dagger high into the air and brought it down swiftly.

She tensed and waited for the bolt of pain to tear through her. He leapt off her and grasped Maribel’s lead where it lay next to her hoof as she grazed.

He offered Ena a courtly bow. “Until next time, my beauty.” With that, he ran off at an easy gait with Maribel cantering after him, mouth still grinding at a bit of grass.

Ena tried to push up, but something caught at her sark, keeping her in place. A glance at her hips confirmed the dagger had not pierced her body at all but the blade had instead plunged into the earth, pinning her garment to the ground.

With a growl of anger, she grasped the hilt and yanked it from the dirt, freeing herself. She scrambled upright and dashed after him, ignoring the rocks and thistles jabbing at the soles of her feet.

But she wasn’t quick enough. He reached his horse some feet away, leapt deftly into the saddle and took off at a gallop Maribel was somehow able to match. Running to her own death.

The small goat made milk, but only barely. Not enough to placate an Englishman, no doubt. She would be good for little more than roasting. The image of Maribel skewered on a spit flashed in Ena’s mind and made her legs pump more vigorously over the ground.

“They’ll kill her,” Ena cried out with the last gasp of her breath.

The Englishman didn’t even slow.

Angry tears blurred her vision, but she continued to run despite the futility. She kept on until her muscles quivered with exhaustion and the horse slipped away in the growing distance.

Defeated, she sagged to a stop and limped her way back to the cottage, the pain of her feet dwarfed only by the ache of losing Maribel.

Once home, she closed the empty pen from within, drew a sleep-warm Moggy into her arms and entered the hut through the door connecting to the stable. There, she tended to her injured feet and made sure the fire did not go out. Despite her best efforts to remain strong, tears continued to well in her eyes at the ache of her loss. Even Moggy seemed to understand Ena’s hurt and stayed in her lap for the entire night, a fuzzy ball of body heat and comfort.

Bran did not come home until the sun had risen on the next day. Ena regarded him from where she sat by the fire with Moggy in her lap, noting the exhaustion bruising the skin under his eyes. She had to tell him about Maribel. And she hated herself for it. For her failure. A knot of emotion lodged itself stubbornly in her throat.

“Bran, I…” She shook her head. She’d practiced all night how to tell him about Maribel without crying, without confessing her encounter with the Englishman.

Renault.

“It’s about Maribel,” she said miserably.

He gave a weary nod. “Ye let her out of her pen. Aye, I know.”

“She didn’t escape, she…”

He chuckled and ruffled Ena’s hair affectionately. “That little beast would never willingly leave yer side. She’s waiting for ye by the door.”

Ena started. Maribel had returned? When? How?

Ena bit back her questions and sliced off for Bran a bit of precious smoked ham she’d found at the market the day before. While he ate and readied to sleep a bit before starting his day, she slipped out of the hut. Maribel was exactly where Bran had stated—beside the front door.

The goat lifted her amber eyes to Ena, soft with adoration, jaw working at a juicy wad of grass. Ena opened her mouth, but there was no point in speaking, in asking why Renault had returned the goat to her.

“Maribel,” she whispered.

The goat bleated back and nudged her velvety nose against Ena’s hand. Through some miracle, Maribel was back home.

It was risky going to Scotland in the light of day. But then, with the way the border between England and Scotland blurred and English and Scottish alike got stuck on opposing sides, Renault would not stand out as sorely as he would deeper into Scotland.

Experience had taught him as much.

He strode through the market, ignoring the cries of the vendors around him: woolen cloth to protect one from the weather, nails from a beady-eyed man who claimed they would resist bending, alewives with their watered-down ale. None of it interested Renault. He’d learned a long time ago to set aside creature comforts and focus on a specific task.

And right now, that meant tallying the number of residents who attended market day. How many men, women and children in total and how many appeared to be armed.