Doubt followed by panic suddenly flared within her. What if he opened his eyes? He could be angry at her boldness, might think her a whore. Which I am, she thought, with a burst of self-disgust. Releasing him she rolled from the bed. She had bathed the previous night, but somehow the thought of ice-cold water on her skin seemed not only pleasurable, but necessary. Moving carefully to avoid waking him she eased open the bedroom door and crossed the cabin floor.
Lifting the bar from its brackets she opened the main door and stepped out into the sunlit clearing before the cabin. The bushes and trees were still silvered with dew, the autumn sunlight weak upon her skin. How could she have acted so, she wondered as she strolled to the stream. Miriel had often dreamed of lovers, but never in her fantasies had they been ugly. Never had they been so old. And she knew she was not in love with the former gladiator. No, she realised, that’s what makes you a whore. You just wanted to rut like an animal.
Reaching the stream she sat down on the grass, her feet dangling in the water. Flowing from the high mountains there were small rafts of ice on the surface, like frozen lilies. And it was cold.
She heard a movement behind her but, lost in thought, she was not swift enough, and as she rolled to her feet a man’s hands caught her shoulder, hurling her to the grass. Ramming her elbow sharply back she connected with his belly. He grunted in pain and sagged across her. The smell of woodsmoke, greasy leather and stale sweat filled her nostrils and a bearded face fell against her cheek. Twisting she slammed the heel of her hand against the man’s nose, snapping his head back. Scrambling to her feet she tried to run, but the man grabbed her ankle, and a second man leapt from hiding. Miriel’s fist cracked against the newcomer’s chin, but his weight carried him forward and she was knocked to the ground, her arms pinned beneath her.
‘A real Hellcat,’ grunted the second man, a tall blond forester. ‘Are you all right, Jonas?’ The first man struggled to his feet, blood seeping from his nose and streaming into his black beard.
‘Hold her still, Baris. I’ve just the weapon to bring her to heel.’ The balding warrior began to unfasten the thongs of his leggings, moving forward to stand over Miriel.
‘You heard what Morak said. Unharmed,’ objected Baris.
‘I’ve never known a woman harmed by it yet,’ responded Jonas.
Miriel, her arms and shoulders pinned, arched her back then sent her right foot slamming up between the forester’s legs. Jonas grunted and slumped to his knees. Baris slapped her face, grabbed her hair and hauled her to her feet. ‘Don’t give up, do you?’ he snarled, slapping her again, this time with the back of his hand. Miriel sagged against him.
That’s better,’ he said. Her head came up sharply, cannoning against his chin. He stumbled back, then drew his knife, his arm arcing back for the throw. Miriel, still half-stunned, threw herself to her right, rolling to her knees. Then she was up and running.
Another man jumped into her path, but she swerved round him, and almost made the clearing before a stone from a sling ricocheted from her temple. Falling to her knees she tried to crawl into the undergrowth, but the sound of running feet behind her told her she was finished. Her head ached, and her senses swam. Then she heard Angel’s voice.
‘Time to die, my boys.’
*
Miriel awoke in her own bed, a water-soaked cloth on her brow, her head throbbing painfully. She tried to sit up, but felt giddy then sick. ‘Lie still,’ said Angel. ‘That was a nasty strike. You’ve a lump the size of a goose egg.’
‘Did you kill them?’ she whispered weakly.
‘No. Never seen men run so fast. They sent up a cloud of dust. I have a feeling they knew me – it was very gratifying.’
Miriel closed her eyes. ‘Don’t tell my father I went out without weapons.’
‘I won’t. But it was stupid. What were you thinking of-the dream?’