Once Upon a Knight

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Graeham nodded slowly. "Along with Drakewich... she, too, is yours." His eyes moistened.

  Blaec's expression grew incredulous. His eyes narrowed. "Is that what this is all about?" he asked. "Is it, Graeham? Because if it is—"

  "Nay," Graeham countered, his tone firmer now. "This is not about Dominique. This is about which of us is rightful heir." He grimaced, clutching at his bandaged chest. "This is about which of us has the strength to protect this land. This is about—"

  Blaec shook his head, his own eyes glazing. "I swore my fealty to you, Graeham!" His tone was rife with emotion. "Did you not believe me when I pledged you my life?"

  "Aye!" Graeham exploded, losing his voice with the outburst of emotion. He swallowed. "God damn you to hell, Blaec!" His nostrils flared. "I believed you, you bastard." He clenched his jaw, and his expression twisted with grief. "Can you not understand that this is not only about you? This is about me, too! I do not want this—" He squeezed his eyes shut, as though with pain, groaning.

  Blaec reached out to place a hand upon his chest, to settle him, his own jaw clenching so tightly with emotion that he thought it would snap in twain. He shook his head. "God... I never wanted this," he said hoarsely, closing his eyes, trying to make Graeham understand.

  Graeham seized him by the arm, squeezing furiously. "I need you to want it," he said, shaking his arm. "I need you to take it! Can you not understand?"

  Blaec opened his eyes. "And if I cannot?" he asked softly.

  Graeham lifted his chin, his eyes glistening. "Then I shall walk away, Blaec—I swear it! I shall walk away and then we shall both be left with naught," he said stubbornly. "See if I do not," he challenged.

  Blaec's eyes narrowed. "And what shall you have if I accept this act of folly?" he asked grimly. "How can I take what is yours, Graeham, when I've sworn to defend it for you instead?"

  "I shall have my pride," Graeham replied earnestly, as though it were all he craved. "As for taking what is mine... what was mine was ever yours," he pointed out reasonably. "And what is yours... I know you will freely share."

  Blaec said nothing, merely stared, stone-faced, unconvinced.

  "In return I will swear to you my fealty."

  For the longest instant there was only silence between them. A weighty, unbreachable silence, for they were at an impasse, neither willing, or able, to yield.

  "You cannot know what you are asking of me," Blaec said at last, a muscle ticking at his jaw. "You are asking me to go against my oath of fealty to you. An oath I swore with my soul," he pointed out irately.

  Again there was silence, stubborn and pressing.

  "With my life."

  "‘Tis done," Graeham said tonelessly, averting his gaze. "It cannot be undone."

  "The bloody hell it cannot!"

  Graeham's gaze returned to the maid who stood in the corner of the chamber, watching them with wide, incredulous eyes. He nodded at her. "Bring me my sword," he charged her.

  "Y-Yes, m-m'lord!" she said at once, but she hesitated, glancing nervously at Blaec. When Blaec said nothing, she brought Graeham the scabbard that held his blood-smeared sword, still stained from battle. Graeham withdrew their father's sword from the scabbard and held it out to Blaec. "Then use it now," he hissed.

  Blaec didn't touch the sword, merely glared down at Graeham, thinking him mad.

  "I cannot live with this guilt on my conscience any longer," Graeham said with passion. "Let me live at last!" he demanded.

  "This is madness," Blaec yielded, shaking his head. "'Tis not your guilt to bear, Graeham. Can you not see that?"

  Graeham thrust the sword at him, his face turning bright red in his fury. "Let me live, Blaec," he insisted. "Or let me die! Finish what Beauchamp started!"

  "God! Is there naught I can say to make you see reason?" Blaec asked. "Is there naught I can do?" He shook his head.

  Graeham, too, shook his head. "Not a thing," he asserted. "Nothing at all. You cannot understand, Blaec, because you do not live in this body of mine." He narrowed his eyes and lifted himself from the bed, forgetting his injuries in his fury. "You cannot know what our father's retribution against you and our mother has cost me. Do not take this away from me now."

  "Do not take this away from you?" Blaec repeated incredulously. "But God's teeth, you are asking that I take everything!"

  "Aye, and yet you will give me my freedom in return," Graeham countered. Trembling, he fell back upon the bed, his face perspiring from the effort and the pain this new battle had cost him.

  "You are weak and wounded and not thinking straight," Blaec told him. ‘Think about it—"

  "Nay! There is no need to think on it. My decision was made long before I even left Drakewich. Why is it do you think I did not tell you where I was going, Blaec? Why is it do you think I did not let you come? And aye, why is it do you think that I pushed you together at every turn? Aye," he affirmed, nodding when Blaec's eyes snapped back to question him. "You were right."

  "This is madness!" Blaec exclaimed once more, seeing Graeham's bloodless expression.

  "Perhaps so... but I would that you took what I offered even so. I swear to you I will walk away and leave us both with naught."

  "Where?" Blaec challenged. "Where would you go, Graeham?"

  Graeham shrugged. ‘The church," he said without fervor, and then squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing.

  "Damn you!" Blaec raked a hand across his whiskers, afraid that Graeham had exhausted himself. "Complete and utter madness!" He nodded at last. "Aye, but if it please you, I shall agree to it," he relented, "though on one condition... that you will accept it back from me if you find the will again to rule."

  Graeham's jaw set stubbornly. He opened his shadowed eyes, meeting Blaec's gaze. "I have never had the will to rule," he said with innate honesty. "You have always been leader here—even when you did not hold the title. Drakewich is rightfully yours, my brother—has ever been—yours, whether you like it or nay—never mine. That is both my own will, and that of our king. As God is my witness, never shall I take it back."

  Blaec didn't know what to say. Rendered speechless by Graeham's impassioned words, he sat, his jaw working as he weighed the most difficult decision of his life. Some part of him acknowledged the truth of Graeham's claims. Another part of him wanted to refuse for honor's sake.

  But whose honor was of greater consequence here?

  Graeham's, as far as Blaec was concerned. If he needed to do this so desperately—and it seemed that he did—then so be it. He would not stand in Graeham's way. He nodded in agreement, though with no small measure of reservation. "Very well, Graeham," he relented with a weary sigh, "as you will it..."

  "I do," Graeham assured him at once. "Now, at last, all will be as it should have be—"

  A knock sounded at the door, interrupting.

  "I will get it, m'lord," Alyss declared at once.

  Intending to tell her not to bother herself, that she had done enough already, and that he would get it himself, Blaec turned to see that she was already hurrying toward the door. He didn't have the heart to stop her now. She opened it, revealing behind it a sober-faced Edmund, one of the older knights in his garrison.

  "What is it, Edmund?" Edmund's face flushed, and he seemed hesitant to speak. Blaec stood to face him, the hairs at the back of his neck rising instinctively. "Edmund?"

  The older man's face screwed. "My lord," he began. His brow furrowed. "I've no idea whether it is important, or nay, but I thought I should tell you just the same..."

  Blaec tensed. ‘Tell me what?"

  "Well, my lord... 'tis the lady Dominique..."

  His feeling of unease intensified. "Speak up, man!" he commanded. "What of her?"

  "Well, you see, my lord... it may be nothing at all... 'tis only that... well, when she appeared at the gate early this morn, I did not think much of it then. Only later... when the almoner came and bid me let him pass, did I think to wonder."

  Blaec frowned. "I do not understand
."

  Edmund straightened. "Well, my lord... 'tis like this... You are aware that the lady Dominique has taken the almoner's offerings into the village each morn?"

  Blaec nodded, following thus far. "I am."

  "Well, this morn she came to me no differently than any other... and I thought... well, my lord... I did not think at all," Edmund admitted, red-faced. "And later the almoner came himself, and I had to wonder whether the lady Dominique had not taken the morning's offerings, after all—though she left with a sack," he explained. "I waited, thinking that she would return at any moment... but she did not, and I thought I should come and tell you."

  Blaec's gut twisted. He turned to look at Graeham, and then the maid—she fidgeted under his scrutiny—and then again at Edmund. "How long ago did she leave?"

  He shrugged. "Hours ago, my lord."

  "Hours? And just now you come to me?"

  Edmund hung his head a little. "The almoner came just a short time ago," he explained, "and then I thought..." He looked past Blaec, toward Graeham. "Well, I hesitated to intrude," he said. And then to Graeham, "'Tis good to see you breathing, my lord." He nodded. "Very good indeed."

  "Thank you, Edmund," Graeham replied. "'Tis good to breathe again," he confessed.

  "Aye, well..." Edmund's gaze returned to Blaec. "'Tis all, my lord. Is there anything you would have me do?"

  "Go after her, Blaec," Graeham urged.

  Blaec stood a moment, shaking his head, torn. He could not leave, and yet he could not let her go. The barest thought of her again in her brother's hands chilled him. He had to go. He turned to Alyss. "Can I count upon you, Alyss... to remain at my brother's side?"

  "Aye, m'lord," Alyss answered at once, stepping forward eagerly. "I will tend him faithfully," she swore.

  Blaec nodded and turned to Edmund. "Aye, then, Edmund, there is something I would have you do. Have my mount prepared, and gather five men to ride with me. Send another here to watch over Graeham." He turned to Alyss. "I make no apologies, lass," he told her. "I can take no chances where my brother is concerned."

  She nodded, seemingly stung by the dictum. But she lowered her head, and said only, "Aye, m'lord. I understand. I would do the same."

  He nodded appreciatively, and turned to Edmund. "Go," he directed. "Go quickly, and have the gates opened, and tell the five I will join them within the bailey soon."

  Edmund pivoted at once, and hurried to do his lord's bidding.

  Blaec turned to look at his brother. He stood only a moment, their gazes holding fast. So many emotions swept through him in that instant, too many to address just now, too many to acknowledge. He was grateful that Graeham had lived, grateful for his affection, grateful for their blood ties. "Do me a favor," he proposed.

  Graeham's brow lifted. "Yet another?"

  Blaec chuckled despite himself, but his eyes were dark with emotion. He shook his head. "Try not to die while I am gone."

  "I would not dream of it," Graeham said with meaning. And then added, "Find her, Blaec... Do not allow her to return into that devil's hands."

  Blaec nodded, and said, his voice gruff with emotion, "I intend to, Graeham." And then he turned to go.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dominique had been traveling now for hours beneath the heat of the sun. Glancing up, she determined by its position in the sky that it must be near to nones. Although she could not be certain of the time when each minute seemed to crawl into the next.

  By now, her dress was sodden with her body's sweat, and consequently, it stuck to her skin like wet, clinging rags. And her hair, like her gown, clung to her face in damp, unruly ringlets— aggravating her to God's end.

  Still, she felt grateful that she'd not been followed thus far—at least she didn't think she'd been followed. Every so oft, her ears played tricks upon her, but as of yet, her fears had proven unfounded. The sounds were no more than those of the woodlands: a hare scampering before her mount's hooves, a rodent scurrying beneath the underbrush before her, the birds flitting in the trees. Every sound seemed to conspire against her nerves.

  No one was there, she told herself... no one was following... though some little part of her dared to hope, even as she prayed it was not him.

  More than that, though, Dominique prayed that Graeham had lived, for if he did not, she didn't think she could bear it.

  Jesu, what if it was, in fact, William's doing?

  What would she do were she to discover that William had heartlessly ambushed Graeham and had left him for dead? She shuddered at the thought.

  Certainly there was much about her brother she did not know. After an age, he'd all but shut himself away from her. Still, she could not imagine him capable of such vile treachery. No matter that she tried, Dominique could think of naught to be gained by the violence, for it made no sense at all. After all, William's entire reason for negotiating the union with Graeham d'Lucy was so that Dominique's children—William's blood—would eventually again rule these lands in England's name. Were William to kill Graeham, how could that possibly serve him?

  Unless... he had planned to kill Graeham after he and Dominique were duly wed...

  Dominique shook her head, refusing to believe that he would plan such an atrocity. Her brother was no simpleton. Surely he would have considered that had Graeham died without issue... his claim to Drakewich would have been feeble at best—not when Graeham had an older twin brother to contest it. And Dominique was certain Blaec would have contested it.

  Nor would William have overlooked the obvious. There was nothing to be gained in attacking Graeham before the ceremony. And she and Graeham were not as yet wed. Even were he planning something so nefarious, he would have waited until after the nuptials.

  The more she deliberated... the less sense she could make of it all. And it all came down to one thing: William had little, or naught, to gain from such foul play. Her brother could not have ambushed Graeham.

  She simply refused to believe it.

  With every minute that passed, with every rationale she employed, she knew she was doing the right thing warning William of the suspicions against him. Though she loved Blaec fiercely, William was her blood, and she could not disregard that. She could not allow her brother to suffer unjustly.

  She simply had to tell him what they had accused him of—and aye, she had to hear the denial from his own lips.

  Dominique rode on, ignoring her hunger pangs and her exhaustion as best she could. When she reached a rivulet, she thought she would dive from her mount into the small stream, so unbearably hot was she. She dismounted at once and led her horse to the water. Letting the animal fend for itself, she then dropped to her knees and eagerly splashed her face and her neck. Closing her eyes, she savored the relief its coolness brought her.

  She then proceeded to lie upon her belly, and cupping her hands, reached down to bring the water to her lips, drinking deeply and desperately. When that failed to satisfy her, she brought another handful to her lips, and another, until she was quenched at last.

  And then, like a child lying in the dewy grass, she was too replete to move. She rolled to her side beside the stream and peered up at the changing sky, judging the time and the distance.

  God's truth, but it seemed that it had taken far less time when they had journeyed to Drakewich. Surely she was close now to Amdel... She had to be.

  Yet nothing was familiar yet.

  Then again, how oft had she left Amdel's walls? Her father, and then her brother after him, had rarely allowed her to venture beyond them. She had spied the surrounding land only from her tower window. The only thing she knew for certain was that Amdel's land was far less verdant than that of Drakewich.

  She lifted her head, peering over the landscape. There was far less greenery now. Even the woodlands she had only just left were sparser in trees. And up ahead, there was yet another patch; it, too, was less dense.

  And sweet Mary, she was hungry.

  And she had to do the necessary, besides. />
  Frowning, she lifted her weary self up from the ground, dusted off her dress, and patted her horse, before searching through the bag she had secured to its back. With a little foraging, she found both the bread and the cheese she had stuffed within, and with no one about to observe her manners, she cared not a whit how she ate. Like a dirty, hungry peasant girl, she stuffed the stale morsels within her mouth, more than grateful that she had thought to bring them. She didn't care that they were stale, didn't care that she appeared a madwoman consuming them.

  When she was done, she wiped the crumbs from her face with her sleeve, bent for another drink from the stream, and then rose, patting her hands, and brushing her dress off once and for all. That done, she took her mare's reins and started for the thicket ahead, fully intending to relieve herself there. While it was doubtful she would be spied should she do so here, there was no assurance someone might not come upon her in the midst of it, and she could never bear it. Though the trees behind her were nearer, she had no wish to go backward even a few feet. She didn't know how much longer she could bear this.

  Never in her life had she been in such a desperate state. Yet it would all be worth it when she faced William at last, and he assured her once and for all that he was innocent.

  The tracks were becoming fresher and fresher.

  Blaec estimated that Dominique must have passed this way no more than thirty minutes before them. Far from being pleased with the progress they were making, he was beginning to grow more ill at ease with each passing instant. With every mile they covered, they were riding nearer and nearer to Amdel.

  Had she reached it by now?

  The possibility sat like acid in his gut. He clenched his teeth as he rode out from the forest and then immediately reined in his mount, urging his men to do so at once, for there in the distance he spied her, and his heart began to hammer like that of a beardless youth.