Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  She headed for the inner ward. That was why she had to leave. He made her realize what it was like for a man to look at her... as a woman.

  Her steps took her toward the stables. She tied the pouch to her belt and entered the gloomy building, moving quickly to her horse's stall. She was untying it when she heard the man's voice.

  "I'm glad you came."

  "Me, too, Forrest," she replied, recognizing the voice of the man from the dice game who had volunteered his services. "Mount and let's be out of here," she added. But as he emerged from the darkness, her heart froze.

  Blood was trickling from his mouth.

  Taylor stepped back, almost tripping over a bucket by the side of the wall.

  Forrest wiped at his lips and stared at the blood on his fingertips. "It's been like this ever since the game," he said. "I can't understand it."

  Taylor drew her sword. "Stay back," she commanded. The men she had played dice with had all talked about the signs of this Black Death. Bloody spit was one of the first signs. Then a large growth under one's arms, near the neck, or at other places on the body. The growth eventually turned to large black spots. "Don't come any closer."

  He stepped toward her and she retreated. "Come on, love. Just a little kiss before we're off."

  "I think I'll find another escort," she said. "Your services won't be needed."

  "But yours will," he answered, reaching for her.

  She knocked his arm away with the flat side of her sword. "Next time I'll use the blade. Now back off."

  "I wanted you since I first saw you." He stepped toward her. "And now it seems my time has run out. You won't kill me. And if you do..." He shrugged. He reached for her again, grabbing for her arm.

  Taylor screamed and thrust her blade with all her might. It pierced his stomach. He staggered back, then fell to the ground, clutching the deadly wound.

  Breathing hard, Taylor staggered to the doors. This Black Death was everywhere. She looked at the fallen man and shuddered. He might have infected her just by touching her. Her entire body trembled as she turned and wiped the blade off on a horse's blanket that was draped over the edge of the stall. She sheathed the weapon and quickly mounted her horse, racing from the stables into the night.

  Slane stood at the window, staring out into the light of the rising sun. I shouldn't have let her go, he thought for the thousandth time. I should have stopped her. I have compromised the fulfillment of my oath. And for what ? Because of my irrational anger. Because of my feelings. He had never let his feelings get the best of him. He had always been able to control them. But not with Taylor. Her accusing words had bitten deep into his heart; and they had been so full of hate! And truth? a voice questioned. No. Not truth. He was no liar.

  He dropped his gaze to the windowsill. He had tried telling himself to let her go. That it didn't matter. And it hadn't. At least not until his anger faded. Then he had searched the castle, every room, every damned nook and cranny. But the only thing he had found was her dead escort. The plague-infested man only made his concern for Taylor grow stronger. Not only did she face the threat of Corydon's men and Richard's mercenaries, but now she had to contend with the plague, too.

  He had to fight the urge every second of every moment to forget everything else that mattered and chase after her. The need to protect her and to see her safe was so strong that it was tearing him apart. It was at odds with his code. How could he leave Elizabeth when she was so ill? He had to get her out of this plague-filled town or she would never survive.

  He tried telling himself that Taylor was so strong, so worldly, that she would be all right until he could see Elizabeth safely to Castle Donovan. Then he would return and find Taylor and bring her to his brother. But he knew deep down inside Taylor was in danger—mortal danger. Every moment he spent at Elizabeth's side was one more moment Taylor might be hurt. Or killed. He clenched his fist. Yes, she was strong and worldly, but she was also a woman—and now she was alone.

  If only there was someone he could get to watch Elizabeth, to see her safely to Castle Donovan! But she was his responsibility. Responsibility. That is a strange way to think of my betrothed, he thought. But strange or no, he knew it was the truth.

  "Slane?"

  Slane whirled at the sound of Elizabeth's voice. Her eyes were open now, glassy with fever. He stepped up to her, seeing the sheen of perspiration covering her forehead. She had shown none of the signs of the Black Death and for that he was grateful. He knelt at her side, carefully taking her hand into his own. Her skin felt hot against his.

  "You've come," she sighed.

  "Of course," he replied, staring into her glazed brown eyes.

  "Oh, darling," she whispered. "I'm so happy you're here."

  Slane nodded. "Everything will be fine now. Just rest," he whispered, brushing a strand of dark hair from her moist cheek.

  "But that horrible plague. Slane, we must leave."

  With every fiber of his body, Slane wanted to scoop her up and leave this place. To go after Taylor. He hoped Taylor was moving toward Castle Donovan. But he knew she wasn't.

  Elizabeth gently squeezed his hand and his mind focused on his betrothed again. Repentantly, he pressed his lips to Elizabeth's knuckles. "When you're well again, we will leave," he replied.

  A smile barely reached the corner of her lips, and her eyelids drooped closed again.

  Slane returned to his vigil at the window, as if he might spot Taylor roaming the town, even though he knew she wouldn't be there.

  Suddenly, the door creaked open. Slane turned to see his close friend, John Flynn, enter the room. Slane rushed forward to greet John, grasping his arm in the customary greeting. He'd wondered where John had gotten to; he was afraid this horrible plague had killed his friend. But now, seeing John standing in the doorway, Slane knew he could leave to find Taylor and Elizabeth would be well cared for.

  "Slane!" John greeted, a grim grin spreading across his features. "I'm so glad you've finally arrived."

  His hazel eyes showed none of the easy happiness Slane remembered. He wore a sword strapped to his waist which was unusual, especially inside the safety of the castle walls. His dark brown hair had been cut into a bowl shape, no doubt at Elizabeth's urging. She had been trying to get Slane to cut his hair into the latest fashion for the last six months.

  "Elizabeth's been calling for you," John continued. Warm hazel eyes stared hard at him. "You did come back for Elizabeth, didn't you?"

  Slane looked away, unable to meet John's eyes. "I was escorting Taylor to Castle Donovan when —"

  "You found Taylor Sullivan?" John asked, excitement in his voice.

  Slane nodded. "I also lost her."

  "What do you mean?"

  "We had an argument and she left," Slane admitted.

  "Left?" John wondered. "You didn't bind her?"

  "I'm not a barbarian," Slane snapped.

  "Maybe you should have," John suggested.

  "She is not a possession. She is a woman."

  Elizabeth tossed her head, shifting in the bed, and Slane lifted his eyes to his betrothed. When she settled again, he lowered his voice. "Richard is wrong to do this to her."

  John shrugged. "It's not your choice to make."

  Slane grunted and turned away from John. "Regardless, I have to go after her."

  "You can't leave Elizabeth like this!" John said sternly. "I don't think she has the Black Death on her, but she's quite ill nonetheless."

  Slane's eyes shifted to Elizabeth. She was so pale and helpless. He groaned inwardly. He knew he couldn't leave Elizabeth's side. His responsibility was here. With her.

  "Someone else will find the Sullivan woman," John soothed. "Richard will have his betrothed."

  Slane's eyes snapped back to John. He seized his friend's arm in a painful grip. "You have to find her," he told him urgently. "You have to find her before someone else does."

  Confused, but reading the obvious desperation and insistence in his friend's plea, Joh
n nodded his head. "I'll try."

  The next day, Slane sat in the Great Hall, staring into a mug of ale. The large room was strangely empty, only the most loyal servants remaining behind to see to their lady. And they weren't numerous. Slane could count them on one hand. He cursed the deserters silently. Elizabeth hadn't needed them anyway. The fever had finally broken the previous night, and now she was resting comfortably. Slane knew she would make it.

  He also knew that Taylor might not be so lucky. She was out there among the sick, fighting for her life. Alone. He shot to his feet and began to pace, cursing his brother for this mission.

  And what had happened to John? He had sent him out a day ago and still had heard no word. Had he sent his friend to his death?

  No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he heard footfalls and lifted his gaze to the double doors at the opposite end of the room. John headed toward him.

  Slane moved quickly toward his friend. "Well?" he asked. "Is she here? Did you find her?"

  John scowled and shook his head. "I can find no trace of her. No one's seen her. It's as if she's vanished."

  Slane sighed. He knew well about her vanishing. Too well. What could she be thinking? Where could she be headed?

  "How is lady Elizabeth?" John asked.

  Slane nodded. "Much better. The fever's broken. She'll be fine."

  "Thank the Lord," John sighed.

  Slane knew he should feel lucky, but he didn't. He felt miserable and concerned. "Have some ale," he instructed. "There's a pot of porridge in the kitchen. Help yourself." He continued past John toward the doors.

  "Where are you going?" John demanded.

  Slane hesitated for a moment. With all his being, he wanted to pursue Taylor. But he knew that was impossible. "To see Elizabeth," he said with a heavy heart.

  Elizabeth opened her eyes. The sunlight streamed into her room through the open shutters. But something dark was blocking the sun from her eyes. For a moment she thought it was John, but then her eyes adjusted to golden hair that hung in shimmering waves to thick shoulders and knew it was her beloved. Her spirits soared and she felt almost like her old self once again. She pushed herself up into a sitting position.

  Slane turned from the window at her movement. There was worry and a slight scowl to his brow, which seemed to vanish when he saw her sitting up in the bed. He moved to her side and Elizabeth reached out a hand for him.

  His large hand engulfed hers, sheltering it in warmth. "How do you feel?" he asked.

  "Better," Elizabeth smiled. "Now that you're here."

  A troubled look clouded his blue eyes for a moment, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. He smiled at her, but Elizabeth could see the tension around the corners of his lips. "Is something wrong?" she wondered.

  "No," he said. "Everything will be fine now that you're getting better." He patted her hand.

  Elizabeth's gaze dropped down to his hand. He was patting her hand absently, as if his mind were on something else. "Your search for that girl isn't over yet is it?"

  Slane withdrew his hand and stood. "No," he admitted.

  Elizabeth felt a twinge of disappointment in her breast. He was going to leave her again. That was why he was acting so distracted. She wished he didn't have to spend all of his time in search of another woman, but she knew that was what his honor demanded. And she would have him no other way. "It's all right, darling," she tried to soothe him. "Truly."

  He studied her for a moment. Then he suddenly came forward and knelt at her bedside. He took her hand into his and pressed his forehead against her wrists. "Oh, Elizabeth," he groaned, "I'm so sorry."

  She stroked his golden hair. "You don't have to be, Slane," she murmured.

  But Slane remained in his reverent position for a long time. When he finally rose, his shoulders were squared, and there was determination in his voice. "We leave for Castle Donovan in two days."

  Slane reined his horse in outside the Queen's Inn and quickly dismounted. For three days, he had tried not to show his desperation and anxiety. John had gone out one more time to search for Taylor. But Slane knew that by then she would be long gone.

  Now he turned to John and said, "Stay here with lady Elizabeth. I will see if they have any rooms available."

  John nodded and Slane stepped into the inn.

  The inn was a tide of bodies. There would be no rooms tonight—that much was obvious. Slane doubted if there would even be any floor space come nightfall. Even so, something made him stand in the doorway and sweep the inn's large common room with his gaze. She will not be here, Slane reminded himself. But I will find her again. This I vow.

  Eyes full of fear caught his stare; eyes full of hopelessness turned away. Men, women, children—all running from an invisible enemy, not knowing where or when or whom it would strike. I'm wasting my time here, Slane realized and started to turn back to the door. That was when he caught a glimpse of something familiar. A woman's tunic. A familiar set of leggings. He turned back to the room. She was sitting in the back, her unkempt hair shielding her face. He moved forward and the crowd seemed to part for him. She sat motionless, her hands folded on the wooden table, her hair hanging wild as if it hadn't been combed for days. Her tunic was ripped near her shoulder, and there was dried blood around it. Her head and shoulders were slumped as if she were sleeping. He could hardly believe his eyes, his luck! "Taylor?" he wondered aloud.

  "Hello," she muttered.

  The relief that had begun to course through him at finding her was instantly replaced by growing concern. She had been hurt recently, and badly. There were rips in her clothing, sword cuts—he was sure of it. And from the looks of the wounds, they hadn't been cleaned properly. "Taylor?" Slane repeated when she didn't look up. "You don't look so good." A fierce protectiveness flared within him. "Come on," he said. "I'm taking you with me."

  She moved her hands forward so that her tunic sleeves slid back. Ropes bound her wrists tightly together, chafing her skin. "Someone else has the same idea," she said.

  "What kind of sick joke is this?" Slane asked hotly. "Who did this to you?" He grabbed the ropes and shook them, as if that simple movement would set her free.

  She stiffened, her face twisting in agony. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't do that," she managed to gasp between her clenched teeth.

  Mortified, Slane let go of the rope. "I'm sorry," he said. He quickly slid onto the bench opposite her and learned close to her across the table. He reached out a hand and carefully wiped strands of hair from her cheek, trying to see her eyes. "Who has taken you prisoner? Where are they?"

  She looked up at him through the strands of hair that fell back over her face. Behind the limp locks, her eyes were tired and glassy. "A mercenary named Magnus Gale."

  Slane's eyes narrowed at the man's name. He had worked with the man before. Magnus was obviously intent on collecting Richard's reward money.

  "He cornered me and we fought. He's a very good fighter, you know. Or else I wouldn't be sitting here."

  He was horrified to see a dark bruise on her cheek, her cut lip. Anger simmered and boiled his blood. "Magnus. I partnered with him once. But he was such a brutal bastard I couldn't work with him anymore." Slane frowned, scanning the common room again. "Where is that vermin?" And why are you just sitting here? he wondered, but didn't ask aloud. Could Magnus have already put that fire of yours out?

  "He went to get food," she said. "He'll be back. If he's not watching now. Slane..." she whispered imploringly, but stopped.

  Slane turned his eyes back to her. He saw the desperation in her eyes and stood. "To the devil with him. Come with me now." He moved to her side of the table. "Wouldn't you rather be in my care? Even though you want to spit in my face?" he asked, his voice sincere. "At least I won't bind you like some slave."

  She looked at him, gratefully. "Only if you'll buy me an ale when we are very far from here," she said, holding her hands out to him.

  "I'll buy you two," he said with a smile. He
reached into his boot and, after retrieving a throwing dagger, quickly cut her hands free of the rope.

  She rubbed her chafed wrists, but suddenly froze as if that simple movement had caused her pain. "Slane," she gritted. "I don't know if I can walk. The wound in my side hurts like the devil. It's still bleeding."

  Slane felt his teeth clench. That bastard will pay for this, he vowed silently. He would have to carry her, but there was no way he could make it through this mass of bodies without aggravating her wounds even further. Then a sudden thought dawned on him. It wasn't pleasant, but there was no other choice. He ran the dagger across his forefinger and then replaced the dagger in his boot.

  "What are you doing?" Taylor asked.

  "Getting you out of here," Slane replied. He scanned the area around them until he spotted a drunk lying on the floor in a stupor. He bent down and wiped his finger near the corner of the man's mouth, smearing blood across his skin. Then he stood and backed up until he bumped into a farmer. The farmer turned and, upon seeing Slane's horrified look, followed Slane's gaze to the drunken man.

  The farmer gasped and pointed a shaking finger. "Look!"

  "My God, he has the plague!" someone shouted from behind Slane.

  "The plague is here!" another woman cried as she saw the blood near the drunken man's lips. "The Black Death has come to the inn."

  Everyone who could stand bolted for the front door, pushing and shoving frantically to get out. A satisfied grin stretched across Slane's lips as he watched the mad dash for the door. But then, a little boy stumbled and fell to his hands and knees, and Slane's grin vanished. Feet pounded around the boy as people stampeded away from the Black Death. Slane leapt a fallen table to race to the boy, but he knew he was going to be too late.

  Then Taylor was there, pulling the boy into her, shielding him in her embrace, hugging him close to her chest. Slane saw a man stumble over her, knocking her to the floor. He rushed toward her instantly. But even as he moved, Taylor scrambled to her feet and slammed into the wall, cradling the child against her protectively as the crowd swarmed past.