Free Hangman Blind by Cassandra Clark Page A

There was a hiss of steel as they too drew their weapons but, unlike their leader, they did not bother to rise to their feet but lolled where they were on the muddy ground, waiting to see what would happen next.
    After a brief pause the first man started to cackle with apparent delight. He had noticed Hildegard’s cork-soled scarpollini under the tucked-up hem of her cloak and pointed at them with the tip of his dagger.
    ‘Look, lads! I do believe St Martin has brought us the gift of a wench!’ Pushing between the sprawling legs of his comrades as he resheathed his knife, he stepped round the brazier and lurched towards her. Before Hildegard could work out what his intention was he was looming over her with a leer on his face which his short, tufty beard could not conceal.
    He shot out a hand and felt for her breasts. ‘It’s a wench, all right. Tonight’s your lucky night, woman!’
    ‘Take your hands off me! How dare you—’
    ‘Come on, don’t be like that!’ As she turned to move away he reached out to grip her by the wrist and pulled her hard up against his chest.
    ‘Stop this! I—’
    ‘Shut up, whore!’ He cuffed her on the side of the head. ‘God’s looking after you. He’s about to grant you four times the pleasure.’ Taking both arms and forcing them behind her back so that she was trapped, he threw a glance over one shoulder. ‘What do you say, lads? Who’s first?’ His companions started to shout drunkenly and bang their flagons on the ground, and one of them even managed to struggle to his feet to stake his claim.
    Hildegard didn’t wait to hear what they would propose next. Taking her captor by surprise, she wrenched herself from his grip, swivelled and plunged back the way she had come, straight into the black pit of the undercroft, but this time with no guiding light to aid her. Weaving blindly between the columns with the outraged curses of her pursuer echoing around the vault, she had gone only a little way when she felt him grasp her cloak to bring her tumbling back against his leather body-armour in a violent embrace. She screamed and began to struggle.
    ‘When I say come back, I mean come back!’ he snarled. She felt his fingers bite into her jaw as he jerked her face up. Then, before she could protest, he began to grind his mouth against her own, and no matter how much she struggled, her strength was no match for his. Only when she felt him fumbling in the folds of her cloak did her anger force her to kick him as hard as she could, knowing even as she did so that her cork-soled shoes were useless against the cured leather greaves he wore, but at that moment she was unable to think of any better way to defend herself.
    ‘Bitch!’ he ground out. ‘You’ll have to do better than that if you want to please me.’ He drove his mouth against her own again in a stink of ale and bad teeth.
    Over his shoulder she was aware of the blazing fire and the silhouettes of his companions as they jostled to get through the door first, but her captor turned his head and grunted, ‘Get away, you bastards. You can have her when I’ve finished.’ But just as he turned back to tear at the tightly belted folds of her cloak, she brought her right knee hard into his groin. It met the edge of his leather tunic and this second feeble attempt to thwart him only made him laugh with malign satisfaction.
    ‘Come on,’ he grunted, ‘fight me! I like a whore with spirit! It makes winning all the sweeter.’ He hit her on the side of the head. ‘Show me, bitch! You want to fight? Come on, then, fight!’
    As he was taunting her he was backing her feverishly into the darkness of the undercroft. His breath rasped with a feral urgency as his lust increased, and she knew that if she didn’t do something quickly it would be too late. Her only hope was the knife in her belt but he held her in so tight a grip she could not get her fingers round it without revealing what she was trying to do.
    To distract him