by Tamara Leigh
Though the warrior of Theriot wished to gain his own release, increasingly he accepted that remained more vanity than ability. “Heavenly Father,” he rasped, “be merciful in allowing me to once more see the unseen so I alone govern my days and nights.”
He felt a nudge and thought it imagined until something deep told otherwise. Someone was here, and it was not Dubh.
Danger. Though not yet in full possession of his unnatural sense, it stretched, allowing him to feel the new arrival’s presence—and that of others, though he was fairly certain the latter remained outside the stable, likely to keep watch.
Guessing night and the absence of Dubh emboldened the one who stole inside, and that just as Edgar was responsible for the attack in the hut, he was responsible for the one to come against this Norman who further offended in gaining Cristina’s attention, Theriot kept his face in profile.
The horses also felt something, now more inclined to snorting than nickering, including Grendel whose muscles firmed beneath the hand upon him.
Lacking sight as well as weapons—not even an accursed shard!—Theriot felt a prick of helplessness that returned him to Normandy.
After being relieved of every weapon and dropped with a backhand that caused him to toss up his hands in surrender, his uncle, Hugh, had spat, Never accept all is lost. Never give your opponent that satisfaction. Ever there is something you can do to make his existence more miserable even should you meet your end before he meets his. Now you who believe yourself favored by God, use those boundless senses of which you are unworthy, the anger of shame which is your due, and the skills I have gifted you. Honor your name, Theriot D’Argent!
That youth had done as commanded, breaking a lofty nose never before broken so terribly as to be permanently bent.
Now as the one who sought to assail him drew nearer, Theriot took inventory of all that could be made into weapons, including fists and feet. But the best weapon was his extra sense that would permit him to make better use of the others were the one coming for him also sightless.
The lantern on the wall to the right was five feet away. His assailant was fifty feet distant, not yet near enough for Theriot to take full advantage of the sudden pall of blackness. Twenty feet would serve, giving the man’s eyes little time to adjust.
Theriot eased back, reversing the slide of his hand and once more setting it on the horse’s jaw. “This should not take long,” he murmured.
The other horses grew restless and some stamped their hooves, but Grendel was still as if he trusted what was told him.
Theriot closed his lids, blotting out the dim to allow his own eyes to sooner adjust to the coming black.
The man was thirty feet distant now as revealed as much by what was heard as felt. Either he was not well-versed in stealth or overly confident in his ability to best one whose sight was impaired.
Twenty-five feet distant. Expecting if his opponent had not yet brought a blade to hand, soon he would, Theriot breathed in, and when twenty-five feet became twenty, swung to the side.
Guided by lantern’s light seen through his lids, he reached with his left hand to preserve the right should he reach wrong. And grasped the hot translucent panes of horn enclosing flame. Gnashing his teeth, he transferred his grip to the leather-wrapped handle set on a hook and lifted the lantern down. Fairly certain the man had halted, he extinguished the flame.
Darkness complete but for torchlight squeezing through the stable’s planks and knot holes, Theriot raised his lids, set the lantern on the floor, and sprang to the stalls opposite.
“If we are not well-matched now, knave who attacks downwind,” he said in the language Edgar’s followers best understood, “that shall prove your failing, not mine.”
A threat there, and as he waited to learn how it would be answered, he used the dark and cover of shifting horses to draw nearer the man who remained unmoving on the opposite side, likely stunned by the discovery what he believed easy was to be a challenge.
Though Theriot discerned he was of decent height, he could not be certain of the man’s build. Regardless, providing he drew near enough to surprise his opponent who would have one or more blades at the ready, he should be able to best him. The greatest threat was lightning. Whereas several times it had flashed through the hall’s windows, only once had it done so since he departed the tower. So bright were those flashes, they could reveal him better than torchlight come through the stable’s small openings.
As he started toward the doors to get behind the man and corner him before he ran or summoned those outside, he heard barking. Dubh had returned and found her way barred.
Lest harm was done her, Theriot moved faster than intended while holding his gaze to the shadow of the one here with him. And saw the moment the man decided to stalk another day when he turned toward the doors and torchlight slipping between planks flashed on his blade.
Ahead of him now, Theriot caught a scent very different from horses and rain—that of fear. No matter the warrior, all but those ill of mind exuded it when warranted. However, this being greater than it should be for a man not only seasoned but armed, Theriot knew who had followed him inside.
Moved by revenge—and likely the desperation of being unable to entice another to do his bidding—the Aetheling had found courage in his enemy’s sightlessness to do this himself. As for steel briefly come to light, likely the D’Argent dagger.
Gripped by his own desire for vengeance, Theriot almost wished he did not know the identity of his opponent lest he inflict greater damage than he would otherwise.
As he bent lower and shot diagonally toward the first stall, words he had heard spoken to his brother, Dougray, who beat two of his peers for taunts over his illegitimacy returned to Theriot.
Let not vengeance persuade you what is wrong is right, my son, their sire had counseled. Exercising control, giving godliness and good judgment their due, better serves a warrior. A worthy warrior.
Theriot did not want to apply the lesson he would not have believed applicable in this instance, but the qualifier of worthy dug into him, and more deeply when he made it around the side of the stall into the area before the doors just before lightning flashed again.
Was it of the Lord? A test to see if Theriot would apply that lesson? he wondered as Dubh continued to protest. Though certain whoever held the hound had yet to quiet her because she belonged to the king’s ward, lest she was harmed to prevent her continued agitation from causing Malcolm’s men to investigate, this needed to end. Now.
When the hunched one hastened past, Theriot sidestepped, came up behind him, and hooked an arm around his neck. “Bonsoir, Edgar.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The prince gurgled against the pressure on his throat, then proving he was of a muscular build and not entirely deficient in self defense, displaced air by arcing his hand back over the opposite shoulder.
It was a good move, the keen point of his blade seeking his assailant’s neck, but Hugh had impressed on Theriot the deadly error of underestimating an opponent. Thus, he was prepared for that and a backward kick. A clamp on Edgar’s wrist and slam of booted foot rendered the dagger harmless and dropped the prince to his knees.
Struggling to honor Godfroi’s lesson, Theriot kept his forearm against the throat straining to keep its airway open and squeezed the wrist beneath his fingers.
When pain and fear of broken bones caused the young man to drop the dagger, Theriot bent near. “As all honorable men know, that is no way to return a friendly greeting. I would have expected King Edward, God rest his soul, to have ensured his nephew possessed manners befitting one who might succeed him.”
The smell of fear sharpened, covering the scent of Edgar’s rain-dampened hair and tunic, and when lightning once more entered as quickly as it departed, Theriot glimpsed his trembling as well as felt it. Though anger tempted him to scorn Edgar for one who would never be king, he bit back the words. That this blind warrior had bettered him must be enough, especially t
o ensure no harm befell Dubh.
“Tell those outside to come inside,” he commanded.
The prince shook his head, but it was a hesitant thing, as if he wavered between fear over death and fear over being seen shamefully subdued.
“I lose patience, Edgar, and an impatient D’Argent you will like even less.” Though before the injury that sought to entirely undo the warrior of Theriot, that threat would have been more exaggeration than truth, less so now he struggled against yielding to vengeance. “Do it!”
“Judd!” Edgar shouted. “Enter!”
Dubh ceased barking when she was allowed to advance ahead of the man who let in the dim of the bailey to illuminate those inside the stable.
Against that light, Theriot could see there were two others besides the one who surely held the hound’s collar in such a way Dubh could not get her head around to bite him.
An instant later, all halted, doubtless at seeing Edgar on his knees, his opponent gripping his neck from behind.
“Once more, he who longs for a crown proves unworthy of bearing the weight of its responsibilities and privileges,” Theriot said. “Now as it would be ill of me to injure the king’s guest, release the dog and I shall send this pup to you.”
“Prince?” one of the men asked in Saxon.
“Do as he says,” Edgar rasped.
There was movement about Dubh, a shout and curse likely due to a bite, then the hound leapt forward.
Theriot wrenched the prince upright, but as he released him, caught the sound of others approaching that prompted the Saxons to swing around.
Ahead of the hound reaching him, Theriot thrust Edgar forward, then bent and swept a hand over the dirt and retrieved a dagger known to him.
Despite the return of that keen weapon and a panting Dubh drawing so near her rain-moistened fur was felt through Theriot’s chausses, it could go poorly for this Norman if those who came to investigate the commotion sided with Edgar.
Very poorly, Theriot amended when he recognized the voice of the other against whom he longed to work vengeance.
“What goes?” Hendrie demanded as he and others entered, the one bringing up the rear carrying a torch that showed the prince was here. Then surprisingly, the Scotsman said with disgust, “Now what have you done, Edgar?”
“He—”
“Aye, he took back his dagger. And how might that have happened, eh?”
As the prince spluttered, Hendrie ordered someone to summon the king.
More spluttering, across which the Scotsman said, “You came for him again, and just as ye defied Malcolm’s command to leave him be, I wager though you sought to do the deed yerself, you did not face him like a man.”
“You cannot speak to me like that!”
“Yet I do. Yer sister will be my queen, but never will you be my prince.”
Keeping the dagger before him, Theriot heard Edgar’s draws of breath, then the young man said, “I leave the Norman to you,” and ordered the Saxons who had kept watch to follow.
“Nay, boy,” Hendrie said, causing the men who had accompanied him to move toward those seeking to depart. “You shall await the king.” A crunch of dirt beneath boots sounded as he started forward with a hitch. “And ye, Norman, yield that dagger right quick.”
Above Dubh’s rumble, Theriot said, “As I took it from one who wrongfully claimed it and sought to turn it on me, I shall hold to it while we await Malcolm—unless you wish to challenge me for that with which twice I stuck you.”
Hendrie halted, after some moments, said, “I cannot like you, but you have the courage and resolve of the Scots.”
“You err. What I have is of the D’Argents.”
The man grunted. “Could be the same.”
Shortly, Malcolm entered ahead of others as evidenced by his height and breadth. “Edgar!” he barked, but continued past the prince to his man. “Hendrie.”
“I believe you can guess what went here, Your Grace.”
“I can.” Malcolm took a step toward Theriot. “I would ask if you are injured, but methinks better I ask that of the prince who lives though I would not be surprised if injury to him or death could be… Well, punishable, but justified.”
“Justified?” Edgar erupted. “First he seeks the attentions of my eldest sister who is your betrothed, now my younger sister who is soon for the Church.”
“Enough, Edgar! You are spared greater wrath only because I share the blame for this, having too much hope you would keep faith with me when I should have exercised caution. But do you test me further…” He left the threat hanging.
“Nothing went here other than a game of hide and find, Your Grace,” Theriot said, aware the insult to Edgar would be deeply felt.
“I see that, just as I see the prince brought a dagger to the game as is against the rules.”
Knowing he would be required to relinquish it, and there was only humiliation in resisting, Theriot eased his stance and extended the weapon. “As it offends my dagger is in the possession of one incapable of earning the right to wield it, I ask you to keep this until I depart your country.”
“Hmm,” Malcolm murmured, then said, “Come to me, Edgar.”
Angry strides carried him forward, and when he halted, the king said, “Give me the belt upon which the scabbard of D’Argent’s dagger hangs.”
Edgar’s resentment was so keenly felt, Theriot would not have been surprised had he tossed the belt at the king’s feet, but he did as bid.
“Even if never you wear a crown, we have much work to do to make you throne worthy,” Malcolm said, “and we are not done this night. So we might add to what Sir Theriot has taught you, ye will go to my betrothed and tell what you did and beseech her to pray the night through with you.”
“I will not.”
“You will, even if you must be made to do it. And one more thing.”
“What?”
“Nay, two things.” Malcolm stepped forward, murmured to Dubh, “Good girl,” and took the dagger Theriot extended. Its return to the sheath sounding a sigh, he said, “I had hoped ye would not require this, Chevalier, but as I am no more willing to cage you than I am the princess’s brother, and once more you prove trustworthy, I return it.”
Theriot frowned. Did he understand right?
“Your Grace!” Hendrie exclaimed.
Before Malcolm could respond, Edgar cried, “’Tis unseemly a prisoner possess a lethal—”
“Lethal, indeed,” the king said as Theriot’s seeking hand closed around the belt. “And yet not turned against you, though blood would be upon my boots were you relieved of it by any other prisoner.”
“You detest the Aetheling!” The crack in Edgar’s voice portended tears. “For that, you provide him the means of slaying me without staining your own hands.”
Malcolm heaved a sigh. “Do you hear any voice other than yer own? Do you see and accept anything that does not fit you in the moment? Aye, this Norman sought to deliver you into his liege’s hands as was his duty, but no attempt was made on your life as twice now you have done his.”
He did not respond. Because he was hearing a voice other than his own?
“Think on that. And know this, Edgar—if you defy me again, more greatly I shall restrict your movements and those of your men.” Malcolm let that settle. “Now that other thing. Apologize to Baron Roche’s men for drawing them into your quest for vengeance.”
Theriot’s hands fastening the belt faltered. He was familiar with that baron’s name—had been for nearly as many years as he could remember—and now it returned him to where last he heard it. The elusive words of the Norman he slew at the burning village before the encounter with Hendrie had been, Forgive me for failing you, Baron Roche. What had he failed to do for that man? And why had he been so far north amid the harrying?
Before Theriot could drag other memories to the surface, one of those who had stood watch for Edgar said, “Since we required little enticement, we need no apology, Your Grace.”
&
nbsp; “Judd?” Malcolm prompted.
As that one stepped forward, it occurred these men had to know Theriot was the brother of their lord’s illegitimate son. And yet they had aided Edgar. Did the connection with Dougray not matter because they were Saxon—albeit they served a Norman?
“Too much drink,” Judd said, “your refusal to allow us to return home, and anger over this Norman slaying our fellow warrior moved us far more than the Aetheling could have had he offered coin.”
Then for this it mattered not he was Dougray’s brother, Theriot thought, and did not have to search far for the reason Malcolm did not allow them to depart. They would report to Roche the name of he who slew one of their number and that he had been transported over the border. As the King of Scots was not ready to let this roll of the dice land lest it deliver to him Normans he preferred remain in England until he determined what to do with Theriot, he would not risk Roche alerting the D’Argents of where their youngest brother was held.
“Your Grace,” the man continued, “as we did our duty in delivering Lady Marguerite to you, the weather is good, and we are unafraid of traveling harried lands, it is past time we return to Derbyshire. Pray, grant us our leave.”
Only distantly did Theriot hear what was spoken beyond Marguerite’s name, memories once more transporting him, this time to the D’Argent camp beyond the battlefield of Stafford when the defeated rebel leader, Vitalis, risked all to deliver the injured Em to Dougray.
Beneath moonlight, Saxons had faced Normans, and Theriot’s half-brother who hated the conquered for the loss of an arm had proven there was at least one he did not loath when he agreed to seek a physician to save Em’s life and keep the slave-turned-rebel out of the hands of her Norman master. Entrusting her care to Dougray, Vitalis had insisted she be accompanied by a rebel named Margaret.
