Chapter Sixty-Three

Beyla was astonished to find she was seething rather than frightened when hands were laid on her high-born, soon to be royal, personage. The horse she had rather liked was sent on its way with a whack to the rump, though she was relieved to find no caves were in sight.

“You are making a grave mistake,” she declared, refusing to play the victim from the outset.

While she had never had any desire to be a warrior woman, Beyla felt she owed it to her family to return to them unscathed. If that meant presenting a bold front then she would do her best to promote and sustain that impression.

“This one should fetch a king’s ransom. What d’you reckon, Sammy?” her captor said, forcing open her mouth and inspecting her teeth for some reason known only to himself.

He was old – at least fifty – and his bald pate was covered in several bumps which complemented the pockmarks on his ruddy cheeks.

“I think we should keep her as a skivvy, Tom,” his companion remarked with a leer.

Though younger, b