Border Fire Read Free Page A

had it not been for the captive’s great dignity. The men who surged toward him, clearly expecting him to resist, stopped and glanced uncertainly at one another when he calmly held out his hands, wrists together, waiting to be tied.
    As they removed his sword, pistol, and dagger, one said, “Do we leave him on his horse, Sir Hugh?”
    “Aye, I’m in a hurry to reach my bed, lads, so we’ll let him ride.”
    Hearing amusement in his tone, the captive stiffened.
    “Bind him facedown across his saddle,” Sir Hugh said. “Cover all but his devil’s face with that damned red cloak, so the world can see what we’ve captured.”
    Stoically, their captive allowed them to obey that humiliating order, keeping his countenance and calm through sheer force of will. They passed ropes beneath the pony’s belly to tie his wrists to his ankles, stretching his body over the saddle. Only when the faithful beast shifted and shied in protest of unfamiliar hands beneath its belly did he speak, saying quietly, “Stand easy, lad.”
    He felt the animal shudder, but it calmed, and he drew a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. When the leader called for them to ride, though, humiliation became of less concern than the pain caused by the ungainly position.
    His padded jack protected his chest and stomach, and his leather breeches protected his nether parts, but the men who had tied him had stretched him tight and the bindings hurt. They had not bothered to remove his steel bonnet or to bind his stirrups, and the stirrup near his head began bouncing about when the rider leading the pony urged it to a trot. The metal stirrup rang torturously against the captive’s helmet and threatened his face if he looked forward or back. The one on the other side smacked his calves and thighs, reminding him of a day in his boyhood when his mother had taken a beech-tree switch to them for some long-forgotten sin. He hoped he did not face a long journey. In the mood Sir Hugh was in, he would not put it past the man to make him ride facedown all the way to Carlisle.
    In fact, they had ridden for less than an hour when he saw castle walls loom ahead. Although his awkward position let him see less of the landscape than usual, he knew that they had reached Brackengill, Sir Hugh’s home. Remembering that Sir Hugh served as a deputy to Lord Scrope, warden of the English west march and keeper of the royal castle of Carlisle, he decided that Sir Hugh intended to house him overnight before delivering him to Scrope.
    They rode through tall, wide-open gates into a torchlit courtyard, and before the gates had shut behind them, the captive noted that the number of men escorting him had decreased significantly.
    “Bring him.”
    Sir Hugh’s curt command resulted in the captive being quickly cut loose and pulled off the pony to stand precariously on weakened, pain-ridden legs between two of the armed men. They dragged him willy-nilly into a low-roofed, dark building that looked and smelled like a stable. It was cold. His host, he decided sardonically, would not be housing him with any degree of comfort.
    His wrists were still bound, and his fingers and hands had grown numb. His entire body ached as if it had been racked.
    Torches burst into flame and cast a flickering red-orange light over the scene. His senses had not misled him. They were inside a stable, and some half-dozen men stood around him, their shadowy faces reflecting the reddish glow. Involuntarily the captive thought of hellfire.
    Ruthlessly banishing the comparison from his mind, he forced himself to stand erect and face his captor. Somewhat to his surprise, he regarded Sir Hugh almost eye-to-eye. That was no common occurrence, for with the exception of Hob the Mouse, he usually looked down upon his fellows.
    Sir Hugh took off his own steel bonnet, revealing a thick mass of curly red hair. Hanging the bonnet on a stall post, he pushed one beefy hand through his curls and scratched his head. His