Once Upon a Knight

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  It took an instant longer for Dominique to grasp the full atrocity of the scene unfolding before her. As Nial slipped from the saddle with the line in hand to retrieve the buteo, she was afforded a clear view, and it was all she could do to keep from swooning where she sat upon her palfrey. She cried out, horrified, and at once averted her gaze, feeling the bile rise in her throat.

  Dear God! If she was not seeing things—if her eyes were not playing tricks upon her—it was a man they'd found! A man and not an animal. Swallowing convulsively, she whirled her mare about and urged her away from the bloody scene, scarcely able to bear the thought of being in such close proximity.

  William, she noted, made no move to join the others, and for the longest instant, Dominique was too paralyzed to even consider why he seemed so withdrawn. She sat there, clutching the crossbow in hand, her heart hammering and her stomach churning as she fought an incredible surge of nausea.

  A man, dear God... a man... The enormity of that fact overwhelmed her now.

  William roused himself at last, casting her a sullen glance as he passed her by and moved toward the gruesome scene. And still Dominique could not stir herself. She wanted, more than anything, to flee. She wanted to spur her mount and fly back to the castle, but she remained where she sat, her body trembling, chilled despite the heat of the sun.

  "Aye. ‘Tis my messenger," she heard William say low, evidently recognizing the dead man. Shock pummeled through her. "God's blood, but they butchered him, did they not?"

  Silence; it was deafening.

  "Are you certain?" she heard Graeham ask, breaching the silence finally. "Hardly is he recognizable with that wound upon his face."

  Dominique tried not to imagine what sort of wound he might bear.

  "Aye," William ceded grimly. ‘'Tis my livery he wears."

  "Good God, man, how can you tell?" She shuddered at hearing Blaec's deep, resonant voice. "It looks as though he fell from his mount and was dragged the distance. Little enough remains of his garments to wipe my arse with." There was an edge of barely suppressed violence to his tone, but Dominique attributed it to the situation at hand. It wasn't likely any man—even the hardest of men—could remain unaffected by the gruesome sight, regardless of whose ally it was who lay sprawled before them.

  "It is my man," William persisted.

  "My lord," Nial ventured. "Look there... you can still spy the marks where he was dragged. Do you see them? Strange that they come from the direction of the village," he remarked.

  By chance, Dominique glanced down, spying the marks that led directly beneath her horse, marks that scattered leaves and underbrush aside, leaving an unbroken trail of disrupted earth... and... and blood. As she followed it with her eyes, toward the burned village in the distant horizon, another rush of nausea threatened, and she had to steady herself lest she fall.

  "Strange, indeed," William agreed.

  "Indeed," Blaec echoed, his tone clipped. "Perhaps you have an explanation for it, Beauchamp?"

  "Perchance, do you?" William countered idly, and Dominique had no need to spy their faces to understand the silent battle that waged between them—both so ready to cast blame. It made her ill.

  Too stunned to remove herself farther from the newly detected evidence, she sat numbly. Behind her she heard the approach of hooves, and in the next instant Blaec passed her by, searching the ground intently, lifting his gaze only briefly to cast her a hate-filled glance—as though somehow this were all her fault. The audacity of the man!

  It was her brother's loss and not his. If anything, it was William who should be casting blame. It seemed Blaec d'Lucy was determined to mistrust them. Still, she held her tongue, saying nothing, for it was her brother's place to speak and not hers. Nor did she feel William would welcome her meddling. The look he'd given her yesterday when she'd speculated aloud about the messenger's fate was enough to keep her tongue stilled even now. And she had been wrong. William had been right.

  Had it only been yesterday since their arrival? It seemed an eternity ago, for within that time so much had transpired.

  One by one, the rest of the party passed her by, following Blaec as he searched the ground for some telltale evidence of the man's identity. Only her brother remained beside the body, staring down at the gruesome sight in contemplative silence, his face clouded with rage.

  Dominique guided her mount backward, off the trail, and out of their way that they might search unencumbered. Her position between them offered a clear view of both her brother and the rest of the party—though still she could not bear to look fully upon her brother and the ghastly body.

  It seemed she sat upon her mount an eternity, every sound magnified... every moment of tension stretched until she could feel them acutely.

  Her heart hammered mercilessly, the beat of it a cacophony within her head. And suddenly the sounds imploded within her mind, for in her peripheral vision she spied her brother lifting up his crossbow...

  Sweet Mary! She knew he was furious, but clearly he was not thinking. Clearly he reacted in anger.

  Before she could even look his way to plead with him... to stop him... an arrow flew. Terror filled her heart with the sound of its release. It whizzed by her head, the sound of it a merciless roar in her ears. Dominique didn't stop to think what it was she was doing. She knew only that William could not be caught in the midst of these men who did not trust him—who would relish any opportunity to skewer him through.

  He could not be the sender of the arrow. Nay, it had to be her!

  It happened so quickly, she had not the time to think. At once, she lifted up the heavy bow, her hands quaking violently, and was relieved to see that her brother lowered his own. In the next instant the arrow struck, embedding itself into the bark of an oak, barely missing Blaec's head in its deadly flight. The sound of its impact was like the first cracking of thunder in a violent storm.

  Blaec's head snapped about, his gaze going instinctively to her brother, and then to her. His eyes narrowed as he spied the crossbow in her hands, and he wheeled his mount about, advancing upon her, his destrier rearing slightly in his furious handling of the animal.

  Dominique had no notion what to say when faced with his fury. Nor, in her shock, did she move to lower the bow. Still, she could not regret her decision, for William was likely too emotional to have considered his actions. She was certain he'd not meant to issue the challenge.

  Desperately, she prayed he'd not meant to challenge.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw that he seemed to be watching. He made no move to load another arrow.

  And still Blaec said nothing, merely stared, first at the extended crossbow and then at her face, his gaze unwavering, his green eyes slivering in his fury. Dominique swallowed convulsively, wishing he'd speak, that he would say something—anything.

  "I-It was an accident," she ventured, her voice faltering. She prayed her brother would not discount her story.

  "An accident, demoiselle?" Blaec's tone accused her. He peered down at the crossbow, and then back at her face.

  Dominique nodded jerkily, praying he'd believe her—trying not to imagine what he would do to them if he did not. She dared not glance at her brother even to bolster her courage—dared not give him away.

  Blaec seemed to sense her thoughts, for he looked directly at William and said softly, menacingly, "Like Rufus in the New Forest?" he asked pointedly, ‘That manner of accident, Lady Dominique?"

  For an instant Dominique did not grasp his meaning, and then recalling the rumors of William Rufus's death, that he was murdered by his brother during a hunting accident, an accident that had occurred too many years before her birth for her to speculate, she shook her head frantically. "Nay, my lord! Nay! I was simply afraid, is all. I-I thought the attackers might still be lurking and reacted without thinking."

  When his eyes met hers again, they were brilliant in their fury. Truth to tell, Dominique thought she might not live to see another instant, for she could well
imagine him striking her dead where she sat—woman, or not!

  "My lord," she said contritely, "I... I am truly sorry..."

  "Are you?" he asked, once again peering down at the crossbow, his green eyes canny. He cast another glance at William before returning his gaze to her. "And did you truly think to protect yourself with that bow, demoiselle?"

  Dominique's eyes narrowed: She knew instinctively that to cower now was folly. "Do you not think me capable, my lord?" she asked indignantly.

  His lips curved, and his eyes were hard as glittering jewels. He nodded curtly. "Something did give me just that notion."

  "Really, my lord! Because I am a woman?" she asked, becoming incensed now. The truth was that Dominique didn't know how to use an accursed crossbow, didn't even know how to load one, but that he would simply assume it was so infuriated her beyond reason.

  "Nay, demoiselle!" He advanced upon her once again, until his destrier was at her side and he faced her squarely, leaning forward, his lips so close to her own as he spoke that Dominique could feel the heat of his breath. "‘Tis because you are holding the bloody bow upside down," he informed her. "God preserve mankind from ignorant females!" he said, and snatched the unloaded crossbow furiously from her hands.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hours later Dominique's cheeks still grew warm with the memory. God's truth, but she'd never been more humiliated in all her life. Her only comfort lay in the fact that Blaec d'Lucy had apparently believed her tale—had accepted her lie as truth.

  Meager comfort that, when he likely thought her an imbecile as well.

  Nor had she as yet discerned why William had discharged the arrow, though she thought it very likely that he'd done so in anger. Seeing the body of his own man, lying there... Dominique shook her head, unable to bring it to mind, so horrid was the sight. And if she could not even think of it... how much worse had it been for her brother to see it?

  Aye, she could well understand his fury. And knowing William, that he'd successfully tempered his anger enough not to challenge Graeham on the spot was remarkable, and she could not regret having taken the blame for him. She could never have borne the sight of her brother's execution, as he would never have prevailed, outnumbered as they'd been.

  Nor had it truly been Graeham's fault, she reminded herself—not when he'd not even been aware of their imminent arrival. How could he have known to send guards to protect their man when the messenger had never arrived to request it? With that thought, she sent a silent prayer skyward and crossed herself, thanking God for their safe passage. How easily such a fate could have been theirs. She shuddered at the thought.

  If only she could speak with William... if she could but see his face...

  They'd returned to the castle in grim spirits, all of them, no one breaching the taut silence—not even Graeham, who was of usual so diplomatic. And then her brother together with Graeham and Blaec d'Lucy had closeted themselves at once, speaking in low tones behind closed doors. For her part, Dominique had made great haste in seeking the sanctuary of her bedchamber—she closed her eyes—Blaec's chamber, she corrected herself. Not hers.

  She sat now, her stomach roiling as she imagined the discourse taking place belowstairs. By the look in Blaec d'Lucy's eyes, she thought perhaps both she and William were in mortal danger. Nay, he'd not held her accountable there in the woods, but she sensed it would come to that, and soon.

  She couldn't bear the wait.

  It seemed hours that she sat upon the bed, wringing her hands, staring at the door. It was with great relief that she greeted William as he entered the chamber, finally. Though his expression was grave, Dominique could only be reassured that he stood before her unharmed.

  "William!" she exclaimed, springing from the bed. She ran to embrace him—something she'd not done since they'd been children together. But she was so glad to see him that she couldn't contain a sob of relief. "Oh, William," she cried, embracing him tightly. "I was worried!"

  Her gesture seemed to startle him, for he returned the embrace awkwardly at first, and then with restraint, looking down upon her with the queerest expression upon his handsome face. "What is it?" she asked. ‘Tell me!"

  He cleared his throat, and then embraced her more fully, laying his cheek down upon the pate of her head. "I... I think it best I should go, Dominique."

  Dominique gave a small gasp of surprise at his disclosure, and tried to withdraw, but he held her firmly against him with a hand splayed at her back, as though he could not bear for them to part as yet. Hearing the powerful hammering of his heart only managed to heighten her fears. God save them both, for little, if anything, ever concerned her stalwart brother. To Dominique's way of thought, their situation must be dire for him to be so troubled now. At her back, his palms were sweaty. She could feel the dampness even through her gown, and a fear rushed through her, prickling her spine.

  "God... Dominique..." His voice was hoarse.

  Dominique peered up at him. "Pray tell, William, speak!" She clutched at his tunic. "Do not keep me in the dark... please..."

  He cleared his throat once more.

  She could little bear the wait. "Did they bid you leave?"

  "Nay, Dominique, they did not." He cupped her chin, lifting her face with a tenderness the likes of which he'd never shown her before—the likes of which she'd never known. Ever. The gesture overwhelmed her. "You were very brave today," he told her gently. "I was fiercely proud of you." His expression, for the first time in so long, was tender, caring, as though he bore her some measure of love. How long had it been since he'd looked at her so? Her heart leapt, and like a child long starved for affection, tears swam in her eyes. What mockery of life this was, that they should find each other now when he was to leave her.

  "I could not bear for them to harm you," she told him truthfully.

  "Aye, well, 'tis precisely why I think it best I go," he told her. "Today you were able to salvage the day, Dominique. Tomorrow, perhaps not."

  "Nay, William... please!" How long had she yearned for a true family? God's love, how long had she craved her father's, mother's, brother's arms? Any of them, to no avail. How long? Nay, she could not lose him now. Not now. "I cannot bear the thought of remaining here alone," she told him, her eyes pleading with him. "Not without you. Do not leave me."

  "Dominique... my love... my precious little sister..." His voice trailed suddenly. And then he frowned, seeming to regain hold of himself. "My presence here does naught but undo the good we've worked so hard to achieve. Can you not see that?"

  Reluctantly, Dominique nodded.

  "The truth is that while I crave this alliance above life itself, I cannot trust myself to remain under the same roof with Blaec d'Lucy. You witnessed the truth of that today—nor do I trust the bastard any more than I trust myself in his presence. I cannot abide the man. No, 'tis best I go. There is too much to be lost else wise. And you shall see... all will be set right in the end," he assured her, releasing her chin abruptly and thrusting her face away, as though it disturbed him suddenly.

  "You must trust me," he said. And then he grasped her arms suddenly, startling her. "Do you trust me, Dominique?" He shook her gently when she did not at once respond. "Do you?"

  Dominique nodded, and allowed him to draw her once more into his embrace, although he held her a little too tightly this time, a little too intensely. God's truth, but she thought he would squeeze the breath from her lungs! Gasping for air, she felt the sudden inexplicable need to pull away, distance herself, but she did not. She held him back, though somewhat rigidly, telling herself it was merely that she was unaccustomed to such affections between them. She frowned at herself... This was good... this was what she wanted... wasn't it?

  "Good," he said, and sighed heavily, releasing her.

  Relieved, Dominique at once stepped back out of his reach, drawing in a shaky breath.

  He frowned at her reaction, but overlooked it and said, "Listen to me closely, Dominique... You must find a way to hasten
the ceremony. You must lead Graeham to the altar as soon as possible. It simply cannot wait, for I fear Blaec d'Lucy would thwart us if he could. Do you understand me?"

  Dominique nodded. "He does not trust us," she agreed, and then averted her eyes as her heart twisted painfully. Her brows knit. "I do believe he despises me, in truth." She dared not glance up at William in that instant, dared not... for fear that he would see how very much the notion pained her.

  Not when she could not comprehend it herself. Sweet Mary, but why should she care what Blaec d'Lucy felt for her? Yet somehow... somehow... she did.

  "I understand," she said, gazing up at him as tears once again welled in her eyes. God's love, but she was so confused. "I swear I'll not disappoint you, William." She shook her head. "I swear, I will not."

  He studied her a moment, and Dominique fidgeted under his intense scrutiny. "Nay," he agreed, his expression hardening abruptly, "you'll not." His eyes pierced her as he cautioned, "See that you do not."

  Try as she might, long after William departed Drakewich, Dominique still could not abolish from her thoughts the warning in his glare. Something about the way he'd looked at her as he'd ridden from the gates filled her with dismay, for it left her with a sense of impending doom.

  Following their discourse, William had not even remained long enough to take the evening meal with her: rather he and his retainers returned to Amdel, hoping to utilize the remaining daylight for their ease of travel.

  At table, Dominique was especially quiet, reticent even, listening to the bantering of the men, and trying not to feel a hostage in the enemy's court. For truth, that was what she felt like, even despite that Graeham d'Lucy seemed intent on smoothing the way before them. He entertained her with stories of his and his brother's youth, while Dominique tried not to wonder what his devil brother was up to, conspicuously absent as he was.

  Scarcely able to bear the tension of awaiting his inevitable arrival and the burden of smiling when she did not feel like it, Dominique was unable to muster the slightest appetite. She excused herself early and escaped to the solitude of her chamber.