Lord of Vengeance

by Lara Adrian

  LORD OF

  VENGEANCE

  by

  Lara Adrian

  (writing as Tina St. John)

  Lord of Vengeance

  Author’s Edition eBook

  (c) 2012 by Lara Adrian, LLC

  First published June 1999 by Fawcett Books, a division of Random House

  Original Print Copyright 1999 by Tina St. John

  Reissue Copyright 2012 by Lara Adrian, LLC

  eBook Published by Lara Adrian, LLC, 2012

  eBook Cover Illustration by Patricia Schmitt (PickyMe)

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Author.

  www.LaraAdrian.com

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  A note from the author

  Bibliography

  A sampler of Lara Adrian's other available titles

  Midnight Breed Series

  Dragon Chalice Series

  Historical Romances

  Prologue

  England, 1140

  The ground no longer rumbled with the thunder of horses' hooves and the clash of weapons. The air, still acrid with smoke from the smoldering ruins of the castle perched high on the motte and the sacked village at its base, was quiet. The damage was done; the enemy hadn't lingered. After all, it wasn't the castle he'd come to claim.

  From across the trampled, body-littered field, a gentle breeze began to stir, drifting like a ghostly tendril over the carnage to where a boy lay, face-down and wounded. It ruffled his dark hair, coaxing him back to consciousness as it caressed his bruised and bloodied cheek.

  “Mother?” he murmured, though he knew she was gone, slain before his very eyes just hours ago by Baron Luther d'Bussy, one of King Stephen's more ruthless warlords, when she refused to become his whore. Refused to share her bed with the man who had killed her husband three days past in a tournament gone awry.

  Ten-year-old Gunnar Rutledge sobbed at the memory, gasping in a ragged breath and choking on the sweet, pungent scent of Wynbrooke's soil and the metallic taste of his own blood.

  Just out of his grasp lay his father's signet ring, the token his mother had tearfully removed from her husband's stiff, dead finger as he'd lain in state. Despite the tremors of siege which had set the tiny chapel's stone walls quaking that morning, her voice had remained strong.

  “Keep this always,” she had said as she pressed the ring into his palm. “And remember your father's courage...his honor. When you are grown, wear it and make me proud.”

  But he hadn't made her proud. Instead to his shame, he'd watched her die. Helpless and afraid, his arms twisted behind him by a large guard, he had pleaded with the baron to spare her. Withstood his drunken, taunting laughter. Weathered the physical blows.

  And screamed in terror an instant later when d'Bussy's blade ended her life.

  How he had managed to break free of his captor's iron grasp, Gunnar could not recall. His last memory had been of running. Running out of the castle, down the motte, and through the field as fast as he could with a knight on horseback close behind him. Legs pumping, lungs near to bursting, he headed for the stream, thinking he might be able to hide in the bramble that flanked it. The thought had scarcely formed when, over the pounding hoof beats, he'd heard a sword rasp from its scabbard. Then, in an instant, his world, his life, had gone black.

  Now, through the haze of pain enveloping his senses, Gunnar heard the squeak of a cart wheel and the murmur of voices. Men's voices. Two of them, one close, the other several paces behind. Footsteps halted near his head.

  “Merrick, come!”

  Gunnar knew the name of the man summoned, recognized the old healer's limp in the crunch of twigs and pine needles beneath his heavy gait as he approached, the familiar smell of herbs clinging to his clothes.

  “Look ye what I found near this unfortunate thief.”

  Merrick clucked, his voice somber. “'Tis the Rutledge signet ruby.”

  “Are ye certain?”

  “Aye. Yestereve it rested on milord's lifeless hand in chapel. And lest you mean to keep it for yourself, my friend, think first on the price this lad paid for stealing--” Merrick suddenly sucked in his breath. “Jesu,” he exclaimed, falling to his knees. “This is no thief bleeding at our feet, man. Look closer. 'Tis young lord Gunnar!”

  Heavy fingers inspected Gunnar's ravaged back, tore the sticky linen of his rent tunic away from his wounds. The old man swore an oath. “'Tis by far the worst damage I've ever seen suffered on a child.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Nay, but soon enough, I reckon.” Gunnar heard a rustle of fabric then felt the rough wool of the old man's cloak cover him. “Half-dead or nay, I'll not leave him to rot out here like some hapless beast. If I cannot heal him, I can at least provide him comfort in his final hours. Come, help me lift him.”

  Limbs numb from loss of blood, Gunnar felt himself rise from the ground, heard the men's scuffling footsteps in the grass as they hefted him several paces from where he had lain. The sweet tang of moldy hay assailed his nostrils before he felt the crush of his own weight and he was placed on his stomach atop a straw-lined litter. His rescuers hurriedly dragged him across the field toward the village.

  Each rut they hit, every furrow, nearly jolted him senseless with pain but his broken heart continued to beat. God help him, but he did not want to live. He had proven a coward; he deserved to die. Living would mean every day facing his guilt, his dishonor. He was too weak; he could not bear it.

  He prayed for deliverance from his suffering, from the anguish of his shame. His family was gone, his home destroyed. What reason had he to live? What purpose?

  The answer came swiftly, softly at first, a dark whisper that curled around him, anchoring his soul to the earth with shadowy tethers. It called to him, beckoning him to hold on, entreating him to fight.

  And, as the healer carried him into his hut and went to work on his wounds, the whisper grew in strength and meaning until it filled his mind, his heart, his soul. It was a single word. A mantra. A vow.

  Vengeance.

  Chapter 1

  England, 1153

  Baron d'Bussy's name was on the lips of well nigh everyone in England. For weeks past, criers had spread news of his grand tournament to the far reaches of the land, the scores of tents and pavilions now pitched on the wide plain outside Norworth Castle a testament to both his vanity and his thoroughness. Everywhere, pennons and colors flew, marking the independent warriors and those repre
senting neighboring baronies and lords.

  In the gathering twilight, men, women and children--perhaps a hundred in all--wandered the wide avenue that ran through the center of the makeshift village. At the far end of the lane, two men, stripped down to their braies, fought bare-fisted to the gasps and cheers of a small circle of enthralled spectators. Boasting, swaggering knights were everywhere, many stumbling drunkenly toward their tents with a wench--some with two--under their arms. The more serious-minded competitors and dutiful squires tended destriers; others sat outside their tents polishing armor and inspecting weapons that would be well-used on the morrow.

  Amid this festival atmosphere, a distant flash of lightning went unnoticed.

  It ripped across the darkening sky and reflected in a pair of eyes staring not at the bustling valley, but at the castle looming over it. Those emotionless eyes, deep and cool as the forest that obscured them, blinked once then looked up to the dismal clouds.

  Rain.

  It began to fall almost immediately, pattering softly onto the canopy of leaves above, then swelling into a hard summer downpour that swept quickly toward the encampment. A grimace twisted the full lips that had until then been set in a determined line. Heavy rain meant a certain postponement of the morrow's tournament and worse, a delay of his promise.

  Gunnar Rutledge cursed, his muttered oath swallowed up by a loud roll of thunder. Beneath him, his black destrier stirred in alarm, eyes wide and anxious. With a low murmur that sounded more a warning than comfort, Gunnar quieted the beast, stroking its neck with a rough, unpracticed hand.

  He had no use for fear, nor the experience to soothe it. Long ago, he'd dispensed with his own fear, expelling it and any other emotion that might one day prove a weakness. He knew naught of celebration, did not indulge in dreams. His mind was fed on logic, his twenty-three-year-old body honed with hard work and countless battles until it now seemed more machine than flesh and bone. He had banished his feelings and exorcised his demons.

  Save one.

  And now that demon had invited him into his lair, offering an opportunity more perfect than Gunnar could possibly have conspired to arrange on his own. He wondered if the baron ever thought about the possibility that he had survived. Did he sit up there in that massive stone fortress and consider--even for a moment--that a reckoning was imminent? Had he ever tasted fear? Did he feel as damned as the boy he had left on that field thirteen years past?

  Soon, he would.

  For according to the Holy Church, to slay a man in tourney was to condemn him to eternal damnation. Hence, melees were fought with ceremonial blades--dulled, though nonetheless dangerous--and blunted lances.

  Yet accidents happened.

  Private scores were settled.

  To avenge his mother, Gunnar would confront Luther d'Bussy. To avenge his father, he would do so in the lists. The plan was simple enough. Best the baron, put the fear of God in his eyes. Make him plead for mercy.

  And show him none.

  The idea that he himself might not survive the day hadn't given Gunnar a moment's pause. He would keep his promise, no matter the price.

  As the rain slanted down from heavy clouds, driving everyone to the shelter of their tents and turning the lists to mud, Gunnar wheeled his mount about and headed into the forest to make camp in solitude and search for patience enough to wait out the storm.

  * * *

  Bright morning sunlight filled the sky as Raina d'Bussy burst from Norworth's open gate astride a dappled gray mare and sped down the side of the motte.

  The fresh scent of the previous night's rains still clung to the air but she scarcely noticed it. She rode at breakneck speed, the skirts of her bliaut rucked up over her knees and her unbound hair billowing in a wild, sable curtain behind her. With a gleeful laugh she leaned forward over her mount's neck, urging it on faster and faster past the empty, bemired lists and across the marshy ground. Warm, muddy water splashed around her and kicked off the horse's hooves to dot her bare legs and splatter her face.

  She rode at a hard gallop past the village of tents and up the gently sloping hill opposite Norworth Castle, toward the woods. Nearing the thick grove, she ventured a glance over her shoulder to judge her distance from the rider who fast approached from behind. His white stallion thundered up the hill, kicking tufts of ground loose under its heavy hooves. With an excited little shriek, Raina ducked into the shade of the tall trees.

  She truly loved a race and, to the chagrin of her father and the young knight she competed with this day, she always played to win. Unladylike, to be sure, but having been raised by an indulgent father and without the benefit of a mother to correct her headstrong ways, Raina had developed her own set of rules. Giving less than all she had, be it suitable behavior or nay, was not among them.

  A quick jerk of her reins brought her mount to a halt near the brook that marked the finish line of the race. Raina jumped to the ground as her challenger skidded to a stop beside her. She whirled to meet her lifelong friend with a wide, self-satisfied smile.

  “Victory is mine, Nigel!” she crowed, nearly breathless with exhilaration from the run and the win.

  Her grin faltered when she spied his expression. Somewhere along the way, the playfulness with which the two began their race had faded and Nigel now glowered down his nose at her. His lips compressed into a tight, intolerant line in the center of his wheat-colored goatee. The sparse little beard he had tried for so long to grow had met with disappointing results, she thought, making him look like a pointy-chinned elf. A rather cross one, at present.

  “What a sight you are,” Nigel chided with a slow shake of his head. He dismounted then pulled off his gauntlets and draped them over his baldric. Pale blue eyes assessed her from head to toe. “You have ruined your gown.”

  Raina pushed a matted tangle of hair from her face and looked down at her faded saffron-colored skirts, now spotted with water and mud. She shrugged. “'Twas my oldest, and a small sacrifice to the victor.”

  Nigel chuckled, taking her hands in his. “That's hardly the point,” he admonished. “Ladies do not go about ruining their garments for the sake of a race. Besides, your competitiveness is...well, 'tis unseemly.”

  Frowning, Raina pulled her hand from his. In the past few months, Nigel had changed. He was now so gravely serious about everything. What had happened to the boy who used to encourage her antics, who cheered her on whatever she did? “You used to enjoy competing with me,” she whispered, her observation sounding more like an accusation, even to her own ears.

  “Aye, so I did,” Nigel replied, “when we were children. You are no longer a child, Raina, but a woman grown. And I am a man. 'Tis time for our games to end.” When Raina frowned sullenly, he moved closer, lifting her chin on the edge of his fist. “If 'tis surrender you crave, I give it. You have won your race and I am vanquished...as ever when it comes to you, my lovely. Now, will you find it in your heart to mend my wounded pride? Afford me something to savor as I battle for your love in the lists come the morrow?”

  He leaned in to kiss her.

  “Nigel, don't.” Raina pulled away, wrapping her arms about herself as she walked to the stream. His attempts of late to touch her were wearing thin her patience, but she tolerated him even as she rebuffed his advances, clinging to the idea that for nearly all her life, he had been her closest friend and confidant.

  She had noticed years before--and her father had issued stern warning--that Nigel had become a man, with a man's lusty designs, but it was painful to think that adulthood might spell the end of their friendship. “I don't understand. Why must it always come to this?”

  Nigel strode up behind her. “Why must it always come to you casting me aside, you mean?” He exhaled sharply, a humorless, dejected sound. “Would that I knew, my lady love.”

  At his tender endearment, Raina squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. “Nigel, you must stop thinking of me like that. Please, for my sake and yours, cease regarding me as aught more t
han your lord's daughter...and your friend.”

  Nigel chuckled and the brittle sound chased a shiver up her spine. “I fear you ask too much,” he said and then she heard him breathe deeply of her hair, felt him sigh against her skin as his arms came about her waist. “How can I think of you in any other way than as the girl I would marry, the woman who would share my bed and bear my children?”

  The very notion made her gasp with shock. She tried to move out of his embrace but he only tightened his hold and pulled her closer. “God's wounds, but you are a bewitching temptation,” he growled, and his lips found their way to her neck, where they lingered, laving her skin in a wet kiss.

  Raina twisted in his arms, trying to escape his unbidden attentions. His verbal advances were one thing, but never had he taken such liberties! “Nigel, you are acting crazed. Let me go!”

  He ignored her struggling and dragged his mouth slowly up her neck. “Will you have me beg you, Raina? Forsooth, I will, and find no shame in it. Tell me what I must do, and I will do it.” He pulled her tighter, his grip like iron bands about her arms.

  “Nigel, you are hurting me. Release me.”

  “Never,” he vowed. “I'll never release you. Let me love you, Raina. Let me make you mine...right here, right now. Let me have you and your father will have naught to say about our marrying.”