The man raked his eyes over her, and she knew with utter certainty he meant her harm. And when he was finished with her, he would murder FitzAlan.
She stood very still and waited. One more step. One more step. When he was just on the other side of the log, not four feet from her, he lunged for her.
The shock of resistance as the point of her sword entered his body made her arm shake. She clenched her teeth and pressed forward with all her weight. For a long, dreadful moment, he swayed on his feet, staring at her with eyes wide with surprise. Then he fell backward, ripping her sword from her hands.
She jumped over the log and stood over him, her heart thundering in her chest. The sword. She had to have it back.
Fighting back nausea, she took hold of the hilt with both hands and tugged. It would not give! Her hands felt cold and clammy. Sweat trickled down her back. She had to have it back.
She put her foot on the man’s chest and pulled with her weight behind it. At last the sword gave way with a wet sucking sound. She fell back a step but kept her hold on it.
The blade was dripping with the man’s blood. She could not take her eyes from it.
At the sound of a loud grunt behind her, she whipped around and saw FitzAlan. He had one arm over the log, trying to support himself. A chill ran through her as she realized his eyes were not on her. They were fixed on something behind her.
FitzAlan’s free arm moved in a blur and something whizzed past her ear. When she turned back to look the other way, she saw a second man not five feet from her. FitzAlan’s knife was in his chest.
She was behind the log before she knew she’d moved.
“My vision is not good,” FitzAlan said in a rasping voice. The poor man’s face was wet with sweat, and the bandage on his neck was soaked in blood. “But I think there are one or two more of them in the wood.”
One or two more?
She swallowed hard. “I shall be ready this time.”
“Good girl.”
Isobel grabbed FitzAlan’s sleeve to break his fall as he slid to the ground.
Chapter Nineteen
Isobel kept watch as before. FitzAlan’s color was not good. Not good at all. She leaned down and put her ear to his chest again.Thump thump, thump thump.The strength of his heartbeat reassured her.Thump thump, thump thump.
She heard a rustle and opened her eyes to see a man leading a horse through the trees. There was no use hiding. The log did not block them from this side, and the man had already seen them. She got to her feet and stood in front of FitzAlan.
The man halted several feet away, giving her time to notice the glint of silver on his horse’s saddle and his fine clothing. This one was a nobleman. A French nobleman.
“Lord FitzAlan, the English king’s great commander, reduced to having a woman champion.” He shook his head and gave her a bemused smile. “It is quite splendid of you, dear lady. But hopeless, nonetheless.”
So this was no random attack! These men knew their quarry. Somehow they must have learned FitzAlan rode out without his men today. But how was that possible? Who could have told them? And gotten the word to them so quickly?
The man took a step forward, and she shouted, “Halt!”
“I will not hurt you,” the man said, his voice calm. “ ’Tis FitzAlan I’ve come for.”
“What will you do with him?”
“Take him for ransom.” He took another step forward. “FitzAlan is quite a prize, you know.”
Isobel did not believe him for a moment. These men had sought to kill FitzAlan from the start.
“Halt,” she cried again as the man took yet another step forward. She kept her sword pointed at him.
“I may have to take you with me; otherwise, no one will believe me,” he said, sounding amused. “I’ll wager your husband will pay a hefty sum to have you back.”
A cold calm settled over her as she accepted she would have to fight him. She felt a wave of gratitude toward Stephen. Every day he practiced with her had made her better. But would she be good enough? She looked the man over, to judge him as Stephen had taught her.
Nothing about him reassured her. He was taller and stronger than she was. What worried her more was that he walked with an easy grace that suggested he would be quick and light on his feet. Damn, damn, damn.