Once Upon a Knight

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Likely, she was afraid he would keep his promise to her—that he would, indeed, place her head upon that pike. Or mayhap she was simply so eager to be free of her devil lord that she was resolved to see Graeham healed. Either way, Blaec only cared that she succeeded in her endeavor.

  If Graeham did not live... God help him, some part of him would die, as well.

  Late into the night, the bedside torch began to flicker, and then guttered, pitching the chamber into blackness. And still Blaec sat, unmoving, listening to the sounds of the night.

  Moonlight spilled inside, streaming like molten silver across the sleeping forms of his brother and Dominique's weary maid. As he listened to the whisper of Graeham's breathing, taking comfort in each successive draw of breath, he could not help but wonder about the woman who had tended him all eve.

  She spoke eloquently, if diffidently, and Blaec would wager she was no baseborn wench. Everything, from the delicateness of her limbs to the fairness of her skin and the gentility of her manners, proclaimed her gentle-born. He found himself wondering how she had ended in William's clutches—found himself wondering, too, how the bloody hell Dominique could be so blind to her brother's treachery.

  He was certain Dominique was innocent of it all. He could see it in her expression when she had begged him to accept her maid's service. Christ and be damned—he shuddered to think of what might have happened had Alyss not chosen to come forth with the ampule, and with it, the truth.

  What if she had used it as William bade her?

  The probable end result twisted his gut. And Christ... she might have done so... and he might have never known. He would have simply attributed Graeham's death to his injuries.

  But Alyss had come forth, and for that Blaec was indebted to her. Whether William lived, or nay—lame or not—he knew he would give the girl leave to remain at Drakewich under his protection. He owed her that much.

  Still he could not credit the depths of Beauchamp's treachery.

  Though he could not begin to consider what was the best course concerning Dominique, he was glad, at least, that she was not beneath her brother's roof this night.

  He tried not to think of her—he clenched his jaw with the force of his determination—tried not to think of her lying abovestairs within his bed. But even now, like the faithless bastard his father had claimed him to be, he was torn between wanting to remain by Graeham's side, needing to remain by his side... and wanting to go to her.

  Even now that his brother was again under the same roof, he wanted her. And aye, he loathed himself for it, even as he craved to spend himself, his pain, his fury, his seed, into Dominique's lithe, sweet body. Like some drogue, she was in his blood.

  Guilt kept him from rising—guilt, weariness, and the sight of the brother he valued so dearly, lying so near to death before him.

  God's teeth, what a fine brother he was—aye, and what a treacherous way he had of showing his affection. His lip curled with self-contempt, for he had dared to reason, dared to hope, that Graeham had willed him to it. Like a fool, he had convinced himself that his brother had driven him into Dominique's bed... into her body.

  What a fool he was... a faithless, presumptuous fool.

  He should have gone after Graeham.

  His self-derisive thoughts persisted, besieging him, until at last fatigue began to claim him, and he slouched within the massive chair. Permitting his head to slump to his shoulder, he closed his eyes... only for a moment... and dozed.

  Dominique lay awake most of the night hoping that Blaec would come to her, pondering her decision to go, and wondering of Graeham's present condition. She waited in vain, for he didn't appear, and just now, her heart felt as though it would rend itself in two. And yet the fact that he'd not bothered to come reinforced her decision to leave.

  She'd managed to convince herself last eve that she'd wanted him to come to her one last time because she'd needed the memories to embrace until they chanced to meet again. She knew now that once she departed Drakewich, she never would return, and the mere thought that she might never see him again made her eyes sting with tears.

  Still, she knew... even were Blaec to accept her again within Drakewich's walls—which she was not at all certain he would, for she'd not missed the expression upon his face when the boy had claimed her brother responsible—he blamed her, and judging by his look of contempt, she thought he might never forgive her.

  But even if he did... once her brother discovered this—once he understood that the d'Lucys had accused him, once more, without affording him even the opportunity of a defense—he would never allow her to return here.

  Aside from that, the betrothal was well and duly broken, for never could she agree to wed with Graeham d'Lucy after having loved Blaec.

  How could she bear it were she forced to?

  Nor did she believe Blaec would allow the marriage to be consummated. Not now—not when his brother's honor was involved. If she'd wondered at all of his devotion to his brother—and she'd not—the look upon his face today as he'd carried Graeham's wounded body within the donjon was proof enough.

  It was over.

  With all her heart Dominique prayed that Graeham would live, prayed that Blaec would forgive her if he did not, but she wasn't going to remain to see that it was so. Nay, and she could not afford even to tell Alyss of her plans, for as of yet Alyss had not once emerged from the lord's chamber—the very last thing Dominique needed was to face Blaec this morning.

  If she did, then she would never have the strength to leave him, to do what she must.

  And she had to discover the truth.

  She had been faithful each morning in taking the almoner's offerings to the village in hopes that the villein would, in time, come to accept her as their lady—and she felt that she'd nearly succeeded, for if they did not trust her wholly, then they had, at least, come to receive her warmly. She was glad now that she had thought to carry out the task, for more reasons than that, for at least now she had a reason for leaving the castle walls this morning. With luck, no one would think to question her—not when she had carried out the very same routine each sunrise before now. With a sack from the kitchens she would be able to carry along with her a few of her own belongings, as well as some foodstuffs for the journey home.

  Home.

  Sweet Mary, where was that?

  Pain tore into her heart, numbing her with the import of the question. Never had she truly known one—never would she ever, by the looks of it.

  She was doomed ever to live in limbo.

  Trying her best not to weep, she dressed quickly in her blue bliaut, and then hurried down to the kitchens, grateful no one seemed to remark her presence there. Unlike the previous mornings, however, she didn't bother to inquire of the rations, leaving them, instead, for the almoner. Were she to take them with her now, she would simply have to leave them within her bedchamber, which would serve no one.

  She found the sacks easily enough, seized one, along with a few pickings from the food being prepared for the breaking of the night's fast, and left at once, hurrying back to her chamber. Once there, she began to choose what she would carry along with her—only the most valuable of her belongings. The rest, she would leave behind. She was forced to, for there was no way she could take them without drawing attention to herself.

  When she was prepared at last, she hurried down the tower stairs, her heart hammering, praying she would not meet with Blaec.

  She breathed a sigh of relief once she'd made it through the hall, and then out to the stables. As luck would have it, her palfrey had already been tended this morn—she could tell because the animal was still feeding when she arrived.

  Once again, no one remarked upon her presence, for she'd come every morn in just this same manner—only this sunrise, she had no intention of riding into the village... nor of returning.

  She found her saddle and trappings, prepared the animal, and smiling nervously at the stable hand who passed by, then led her mare out
of its stall. She crooned softly to the animal as she placed the meal sack over its haunches and secured it, trying to appear casual as she hurried. That done, she led the animal out of the stables, into the dawn light, and mounted.

  By now the sky had lightened considerably, sending tendrils of pink and violet into the distant horizon.

  Her palms sweating, her limbs shaking, and her heart pounding madly within her breast, she took in a fortifying breath and rode toward the gatehouse, telling herself that this morning would seem no different to the gatekeeper—though the insistent pounding in her head gave lie to her self-assurances.

  This morning was different.

  How could it not be when only yesterday the lord's body had been carried within, wounded—perhaps fatally? She could not forget that Graeham d'Lucy lay within the keep, fighting for his life. Nor could she forget that it was her brother who stood accused—or the look Blaec had given her.

  Would the guard allow her to pass?

  The pit of her stomach plummeted and then surged again as she neared the gatehouse. Scarcely able to breathe as she faced the sober-faced gatekeeper, she said nothing, merely smiled and patted the sack she had secured to her mount. He waved back and proceeded to direct the opening of the portcullis and gates. Dominique was grateful she was mounted, for she thought that had she been upon her feet in that instant, her legs might have given way beneath her, so relieved was she.

  While she waited, listening to the clamor of the portcullis lifting, she prayed no one would rush from the keep and prevent the opening of the gates themselves—prayed that she would have the stoutheartedness to go forth once the moment arrived.

  The longer she sat, the more her fear overwhelmed her, paralyzed her. She tried not to appear guilty, but she felt the guilt all the way to her core.

  At last the portcullis was elevated, silenced, the drawbars released, and then at last the gates were opened. With far more fear than courage, Dominique spurred her mount forth, into the barbican, not daring to glance backward. She did not dare, for in her mind she saw Blaec storming from the keep, racing toward her, a lethal vengeance in his eyes.

  Only after she exited the barbican and the gates closed behind her did she sigh with relief. The sound of the drawbars being replaced was like both a harmony from heaven above, and a death knell as well, for if she never saw Blaec again, she was certain some part of her would cease to live—scarcely was she free of the gates and some part of her was dying already.

  In order to dispel suspicion, Dominique rode toward the village at first, her heart pounding like a battering ram. Once she was far enough away from the castle walls that she felt it safe enough, she veered toward the fog-enshrouded trees and didn't slow until she was safely within them.

  And even then, she did not rest. Anticipating the shouts of pursuit to reach her at any moment, she made her way through the misty woods, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

  No sounds came to her other than the crunching of leaves beneath her mount's hooves and the noises of the forest surrounding her. Those, and the sound of her heart breaking.

  Not even when she exited the forest and dared to make use of the old road did she hear their pursuit, and Dominique didn't know whether to be relieved or aggrieved.

  Though she told herself it was the former, her heart felt only the latter.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "M'lord!"

  Blaec straightened abruptly within the chair, gripping its carved wooden arms. He'd been dreaming, and the frantic female voice intruded, waking him, befogging him.

  "Awake, m'lord!" the maid exclaimed.

  Seeing her blurry face waver before him, he blinked, clearing his mind of its webs. It was morning, as best he could determine, for the shutters were open wide to the daylight and the torches as yet unlit. He'd slept.

  "He called for you, m'lord!" Alyss' face was animated, elated, her dark eyes sparkling. "He called your name!" she told him excitedly, smiling.

  Scarcely able to believe his ears—afraid that he was dreaming still—he blinked again, and his voice was gruff with sleep when he asked, "He called for me?" He cleared his throat, tilting his head in question. "Graeham?"

  She nodded enthusiastically, and then leapt away as he bolted suddenly from the chair, practically overturning it in his haste to leave it. His heart hammering, Blaec knelt at his brother's bedside only to find that Graeham's eyes were still closed. "Are you certain?" he asked, disappointment quickly filtering through him.

  "Aye, m'lord," she replied, peering over his shoulder. Her voice seemed undaunted at the sight of Graeham's pallid face. Not so, Blaec. It terrified him, for Graeham was too still by far. "Not once, but twice did he call for you," she assured him.

  Blaec touched Graeham's arm warily, squeezing gently, feeling its warmth. And still he was afraid to hope. "Graeham?" he called softly, and held his breath.

  At first there was no response, and then as he started to call Graeham's name once more, Graeham opened his eyes suddenly. Seeing Blaec, he smiled wanly, and Blaec exhaled in relief.

  "God's teeth," Graeham said weakly, swallowing with difficulty. "Can a man not rest in peace?" His eyes sparkled dimly, belying the complaint.

  Blaec's features softened at his brother's quip, at the familiar bedeviling look in his eyes. "You whoreson," he said, smiling back. "What makes you think you can lay about all day sleeping your fool head off?"

  Graeham chuckled, though with some difficulty, grimacing in pain over the effort.

  Blaec's smile faded somewhat. "You went and did it this time, didn't you, Graeham?" Both of them well understood what he was talking about. When Graeham did not speak, he said, "It seems to me that you are determined to see yourself consigned to the grave."

  Graeham's expression sobered as he made an effort to peer down at his bandaged wounds. As he met Blaec's gaze once more, he shook his head. "'Tis not what you think, Blaec." The expression in his eyes was regretful. "I tried. I truly did. Had I truly craved death... well... we would not be speaking just now," he pointed out. "Would we?"

  Blaec nodded, and sighed. "I suppose not," he relented. And then admitted, "I feared we lost you, my brother."

  Their gazes held.

  Graeham blinked, his eyes glazing slightly. "Well, you did not," he replied as glibly as he was able, "for here I am in flesh and blood."

  Blaec's lips curved. "Mostly blood."

  Graeham took a deep breath, and then grunted in pain. ‘That bloody whoreson," he hissed.

  Blaec gritted his teeth. "Beauchamp?"

  He sensed Alyss' withdrawal in that instant. He heard her footsteps as she moved across the room to afford them some measure of privacy, and was grateful, though he was too angry to acknowledge the gesture at the moment.

  Graeham sighed, his eyes following her. "Aye, Beauchamp—the bastard—though I know not why he would do so." A muscle ticked at his jaw.

  "And you are certain it was he?"

  "Never would I mistake those eyes," Graeham asserted. "Aye, 'twas he—the bastard! I swear if I ever get my hands around his traitorous neck—" He clutched his hands together and then shuddered. He nodded in Alyss' direction. "Did she do this?" He indicated the bandages.

  Blaec nodded. "She was quite eager to help." His lips curved slightly. He peered back over his shoulder at the woman in question and then his gaze returned to Graeham. "Perhaps she feared to lose the chance to ride her new lord?" he said in low tones, lest he offend her.

  Graeham chuckled, closing his eyes, as though to consider the remark... but then did not reopen them... nor did it seem as though he breathed.

  Blaec's heartbeat quickened. "Graeham?" His face paled.

  Graeham's eyes popped open and he sought out the maid once more. "I was wondering if she would mind riding the lord's brother, is all," he said, with the slightest smile.

  Blaec averted his eyes to the window momentarily, hating himself never more than he did in that moment. "The lord's brother needs no consideration
," he said guiltily, bitterly. "The lord's brother has already taken his fill." Of that which he had no right to. It was all he could do to return his gaze to Graeham.

  "Bastard," Graeham said without heat, without meaning, laughing low. "Speak for your own self. If I say the lord's brother is in need of attention, he is in need." The sparkle in his eyes intensified. "At long last," he added softly, almost inaudibly.

  Confused by the remark, Blaec frowned down at his younger twin brother. "You must be addle-pated," he said. "You haven't made this little sense..." He shook his head. "Not since..."

  "I am no longer the lord of Drakewich," Graeham interjected, his expression sober, though his eyes were brilliant still, as though with fever.

  Blaec's brows collided. "God's blood!" he exclaimed. "Beauchamp has rattled your brain! What the hell are you saying, Graeham?"

  Graeham's face set sternly. "I said... I am no longer lord of our father's demesne," he repeated, his eyes sober. "I believe I spoke plainly enough. If not, I'll say it no plainer than this... Drakewich is no longer mine. 'Tis yours," he revealed without regret.

  Blaec surged to his feet, glowering down at Graeham. "By whose edict?" he demanded to know.

  "King Stephen's," Graeham replied easily, though he grimaced in pain.

  "I'll not bloody accept it!" Blaec bellowed. "Who the devil does he think he is to strip you of your birthright?"

  "Nay. ‘Tis your birthright, not mine," Graeham countered softly, his chin lifting. "‘Tis yours and we both know it well enough."

  Blaec's jaw tightened. His teeth clenched.

  "'Tis long past time to accept the truth," Graeham continued, undaunted.

  Blaec shook his head furiously. "By the rood of Christ, Graeham!" He knelt again by the bedside, trying to make Graeham comprehend, trying to comprehend himself. "Can you not see that I've never cared who inherited this land? Do you not know that I've never begrudged you anything—" His voice broke, and his eyes closed. "Save one thing," he amended truthfully, meeting Graeham's eyes once more, no matter how painful. "We both know what that one thing is..."