Margaret Moore - [Warrior 14]

by In The Kings Service

  She stared at him with disgust and shame to think that she’d once thought he was the most wonderful man in the world. “How could you? How could you betray the oath you swore to the king? How could you use Laelia and me to further your despicable schemes?”

  “You are a fool!” he retorted, circling around to the other side of his table, so it was between them. “You don’t know anything about politics or the court! That French harlot spreads her legs for the king and her arrogant relatives become rich and powerful. If Henry can’t see that they’re ruining the country, he must be made to see it!” He brought his fist down on the table with a crash, making the scrolls, ink vessel and sword hilt rattle.

  “But not by war and rebellion!” Becca cried. “What you plan is treason, and men will die because of it. And you’ll make our land vulnerable to the Danes again. You’re giving them a foothold in this country. Have you forgotten what havoc the Vikings wrought in the past? And do you really trust that they’ll be content with Throckton? I’ve listened to Dobbin and some of the others tell tales their fathers and grandfathers told them, of the time of the Viking raids in this part of England. Perhaps you should, too, and stop this insanity while you’ve got the chance.”

  “The day I listen to a whining, sniveling spy—”

  She faced him squarely, shoulders back and eyes blazing. “Unless you send Valdemar away and stop this scheming, you stand in danger of being arrested for high treason.”

  He splayed his hands on the table. “I wouldn’t try to betray me to the king, girl. It won’t go well for you, or Laelia, if I’m accused. You’re my children, after all. Laelia is to marry Henry after we’ve disposed of Eleanor. You are the means to assure my ties to the Danish king. Do you think they’ll care if you agreed or not? By God, they won’t! Henry’s a boy, a scared little boy pretending to be king.

  “If you’re as clever as you think you are, you’ll stand by me and do as I say and marry Valdemar.” He took a deep breath and straightened, and she watched as the genial mask again fall into place. “You’ll be able to stay here, if you’re so worried about the peasants. You could keep them safe. And Valdemar’s a handsome fellow.”

  She curled her lip. “What, you would try to buy me off, too, and with Valdemar?” she scoffed. “Oh, Father, how little you know me!”

  “Damn you, girl, you’ll be the wife of a prince!” he shouted, bringing his fists down again. The ink vessel fell over, and the thick black liquid spread over the table, its pungent odor filling the air.

  “I’ll be a traitor’s daughter, married to a man who doesn’t want me,” Becca answered. “I refuse to be part of that. I’ll see that Laelia isn’t, either.”

  He looked at her as if she were a servant who disgusted him. “How do you intend to do that? You’re my property, Rebecca. My chattel. I can do with you what I will.”

  “If I have to be the one to give evidence against you, I will, because I won’t put England and everyone I care about at risk.”

  “You think you can bring me down, Rebecca? You, a woman? A woman who’s been unnatural from birth, more like a boy than a girl.” He stepped toward the table and drew his sword, then let the empty scabbard drop as he came around the end. “This is your last chance.”

  Trembling, her crippled leg weak and aching, she couldn’t move fast enough. Motionless, she kept her gaze on his face as he pointed the tip of his sword at her throat. “Will you kill me, Father? Are you that degenerate that you’d murder your own child?”

  “You’re not my child.”

  She gasped as another shock rushed through her.

  His blade flicked, cutting her cheek. “I told you your mother was useless. She was worse than useless in my bed, so I sought another. That’s how I knew the brat she bore couldn’t be mine. I made her tell me who she’d been with. You’re the bastard spawn of a woman no better than a whore, and a common soldier.”

  Becca stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. Yet that would explain so much. But who…?

  The answer came to her in a flash of sudden understanding. There was one man who’d been a better father to her than her own. “Dobbin,” she murmured.

  “Yes, Dobbin, that uncouth lout! Are you proud of your heritage now, my dear? You belong in the gutter, not at a lord’s table. You should be grateful I didn’t leave you out to die in a ditch.”

  Memories came flooding to her, of Dobbin’s gentle kindness, the look of longing in his eyes, the thing he’d said about a woman miserably married. And the realization that his eyes and hers were the same shade of blue. And yet… “If that’s true, why is he still here? Why didn’t you send him away?”

  “Do you think I was going to have it known that my wife had rutted with a soldier?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And perhaps you enjoyed his torture, letting him watch you claim me for your own, just as you surely made my mother suffer with your womanizing.” She smiled at the shock that appeared on his face. “I know about that, too, Father—at last. No wonder she sought comfort elsewhere.”

  He closed on her again, and she backed toward the door.

  “What explanation will you give for my death, Father?” she demanded, wondering if she could get close enough to the door and move fast enough to elude him if he struck. “It’ll have to be a credible tale to excuse my murder, or you could have more trouble than you expect. The people like me, Father. While you were spoiling Laelia, I was enjoying their company, and I have many friends.”

  “You’re mad,” he said, smiling cruelly. “You’ve always been a little mad, but I excused you and tried to hide it. Then today, you attacked me. You tried to kill me, your own father. I promise you, I’ll shed plenty of tears of regret and remorse that I had to defend myself against you, and kill you doing it.”

  “Sir Blaidd Morgan might have his suspicions that you’re lying, no matter how much you weep,” she said. “Between the arrival of Valdemar and my death, who can say what he might surmise?”

  She’d tried not to speak of him, lest her father guess why he was here. Then Blaidd would be in danger, too. But she was desperate, trying to save her life.

  Her father paused in his progress. “Morgan? Ah! I see which way your mind is tending. You plan to go to him and tell him what you’ve heard, thinking he’ll believe you, and protect you.” He laughed scornfully. “What good will that Welshman do you when you’re dead? And he can say what he likes. I have friends at court, too, and I’ll have more when I march on London with my army and Valdemar’s at my back.”

  Becca risked a glance over her shoulder, to see if she was close enough to reach the latch.

  “Too late, Rebecca. And you couldn’t run fast enough, anyway,” he said, his eyes gleaming with determination. “I’d catch you on the stairs.”

  He lunged, but she twisted away from him. Panting with the effort, she sidled as fast as she could along the wall. If she could reach the window…call for help…

  He raised his sword to strike. With all that remained of her energy and determination, Becca threw herself at the window. She clutched the sill, holding on to it as if the very stones could save her life. “Help me!” she screamed.

  A host of shocked faces turned toward the window. One, handsome and framed with long dark hair, stood out among them.

  Then Throckton grabbed Becca’s gown and hauled her back into the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The instant Blaidd heard Becca scream, he yanked his sword from its scabbard and tore through the courtyard. He took the circular stairs leading to Lord Throckton’s solar three at a time and, using his shoulder, burst through the door.

  A bloody sword in his hand, Lord Throckton stood over Becca, who was slumped on the floor beside the window. She clutched her side and blood—bright red and shining—oozed between her fingers. Her face was white as newly fallen snow. She looked…dead.

  “Becca!” Blaidd gasped, his own blood pounding in his ears as he ran toward her limp, motionless body.

  “Guar
ds!” Lord Throckton shouted. “Guards!”

  Savage, primal rage exploded within Blaidd, overpowering his pain as he whirled around to face the murderer. “You bloody, traitorous dog! All the soldiers in England won’t help you now.”

  The color drained from Throckton’s face as Blaidd closed on him.

  Dobbin and two other soldiers appeared on the threshold, panting and staring in horror at the sight of Becca’s body.

  “What are you waiting for?” Throckton shouted at them, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Kill him! Can’t you see he’s attacking me? He’s already killed Lady Rebecca!”

  “Your blade is bloody, not mine,” Blaidd said through clenched teeth as he struggled to control the blood lust throbbing through his veins. A quick death was too easy for Throckton.

  With fear and panic in his eyes, Throckton raised his weapon. “I had to do it. I was defending myself. She’s in league with this Welshman! She came here and made all sorts of accusations, then tried to kill me! They’re plotting against me, them and the king! They want to kill me and take over my lands.”

  “Where’s her weapon?” Blaidd demanded.

  Throckton’s eyes flared. “She…she tried to strangle me.”

  Blaidd began to circle him, ready to strike if the man didn’t lay down his sword. “Liar! And you dishonor her memory with that accusation.”

  His eyes full of hate, Dobbin slowly drew his sword. “So it wasn’t enough that you tried to marry your way into power, first with Lady Laelia’s mother, then Rebecca’s, and finally that poor silly girl. I thought you’d given up your ambitions, that getting rich with your foreign trading would content you, and this fortress would give you what your pride required. A better man would have realized he had jewels in his daughters, especially Rebecca, and taken pride in them, too. But no, you’re the same scheming, lecherous lout you’ve always been. I won’t lift a finger to help you. And if Sir Blaidd gives the word, I’ll gladly run you through.”

  “I tell you, this man’s in league with the king, and Henry’s out to destroy me!” Throckton bellowed at the two soldiers, his whole body quaking. “You’re paid to protect me! Do as I say or I’ll have you executed!”

  “I wouldn’t speak of execution if I were you,” Blaidd said as he halted and glared at his enemy. “Throckton, I arrest you in the name of the king. The charges are murder and high treason.”

  Before Throckton could protest, Blaidd addressed the soldiers. “I represent King Henry, and if you help him, you’ll be assisting a murderer and a traitor. Do you want to help the man who’s killed Lady Rebecca, especially when the evidence of his guilt is before you?”

  With disgust written on their faces, the guards held their hands away from their weapons.

  “You’re right in one thing, Throckton,” Blaidd continued, his voice coldly, terrifyingly deliberate. “I was sent by the king, although not to assassinate you. Henry already suspected you of plotting against your rightful king. I was sent here to find evidence of either your innocence or your guilt. I’ve discovered that Henry was right to be suspicious. And now you’ve even murdered your own child.”

  “I’m not a traitor! You oafs, he’s lying!” Throckton shrieked at the soldiers. “Take this man and imprison him in the dungeon. And Rebecca tried to kill me.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Her whisper was barely loud enough to be heard, but pure joy filled Blaidd as he turned and stared, wonder and relief overwhelming him. She lived! Oh, sweet merciful God, she lived!

  Blaidd hurried toward her, but Dobbin reached her first. The garrison commander cradled her in his arms as Blaidd knelt on one knee in front of her, his anxious gaze studying her pale face.

  “He always was a poor aim,” Dobbin muttered while examining her wound. “The blade must have slid along her ribs. It’s bad, but I’ve seen worse.”

  Blaidd bowed his head in silent, thankful prayer. Then, as he raised his eyes to look at the woman he adored, he saw her blue eyes widen with horror.

  With instincts honed from years of training and tournaments, Blaidd twisted, turned and, still kneeling, thrust his blade through Lord Throckton’s chest.

  The man’s upraised sword fell to the ground.

  Gulping for air, Lord Throckton stumbled backward. He fell over his table, sending scrolls tumbling to the floor. Trying to push himself upright, he began to cough as blood filled his throat and mouth.

  But it was too late. His life ebbing, he slipped from the table to the floor, then fell sideways, dead.

  Becca’s strangled sob broke the silence.

  Blaidd’s heart churned with anguish as he turned back to her. “Becca, I had no choice.”

  She didn’t answer. She turned away and buried her face against Dobbin’s chest.

  “Death would have been his fate, anyway,” Blaidd pleaded, trying to make her see he’d been forced to kill the man. “This was a more merciful end than he would have received if he’d been convicted of treason.”

  Dobbin fixed Blaidd with a cold glare. “That’s enough talk, Sir Blaidd. She needs tending, not words. I’ll take care of her. I’ve got some skills looking after wounds.”

  “V-very well,” Blaidd stammered as he rose.

  A feeling of utter helplessness stole over him. Couldn’t a soldier understand that he’d acted in self-defense? And if Dobbin couldn’t, would Becca ever be able to forgive him for killing her father, even if he was a traitor?

  What if everyone here reacted like Dobbin, with anger and hostility? Blaidd and Trev might be in danger. They might have to flee. He should find Trev at once.

  The two silent, grave soldiers still stood on the threshold. Blaidd’s hand gripped his sword; if they tried to stop him, they’d regret it.

  Before he got to the door, Valdemar shoved his way past the soldiers and strode into the room. He halted abruptly when he saw Lord Throckton’s bloody body, and Becca, and a gasp of surprise escaped his lips.

  Roused by the sight of the Dane, Blaidd remembered he was the king’s representative and must act like it. Taking command of the situation, he grabbed Valdemar’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “We’ll talk outside. Where’s Lady Laelia?”

  Valdemar flushed. “I don’t know.”

  Blaidd didn’t believe him, but it was better that she wasn’t here to see her father’s body and Becca’s wound.

  He discovered the stairs were crowded with curious and concerned soldiers and servants. He ordered them to go, all except Meg, whom he sent to the solar to help tend her mistress.

  When everyone had gone, he faced Valdemar, who finally managed to wrench his arm free of Blaidd’s grip.

  “How dare you hold me as if I were a common criminal,” the Dane growled as he rubbed his arm.

  “How dare you plot to overthrow my king?” Blaidd demanded in return.

  Valdemar stopped rubbing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do, and your erstwhile ally in a conspiracy against the king of England now lies dead in the solar. Your alliance is over.”

  His gaze flicking to Blaidd’s sword, Valdemar took a nervous step backward. “There was no conspiracy, and our alliance was only for trade,” he said, although his words lacked their former haughty certainty.

  Blaidd regarded the man with a long, measuring, critical glare. “I don’t believe that, and I doubt Henry will, either. He’s not likely to look kindly on foreigners who are implicated in a plot against the English crown, so I suggest, my lord prince, that you flee while I give you the chance. If you stay, you risk imprisonment on suspicion of being involved in Lord Throckton’s schemes.”

  Valdemar put his hand on his sword hilt and spoke with more confidence. “Your accusations are utterly unfounded. Where is your proof?”

  “Henry is going to hear about what happened here, and who was involved,” Blaidd replied, not the least bit intimidated. After what had happened in the solar, nothing this man said or did could upset him. “He already had his suspicions ab
out Throckton, and now he’ll have them about you, and your father, too. I’d stay away from England in future, if I were you, unless you wish to start a war.”

  Valdemar’s face reddened. “This talk of war is ridiculous and you wouldn’t dare imprison me!” he spluttered. “I’m the son of the king of Denmark!” He managed to regain some self-control. “Besides, you have no authority here.”

  “Since this isn’t Denmark, I’ve got more authority than you do,” Blaidd retorted. “And it’s because of your father that I’m willing to let you leave. I don’t want a war with Denmark started over the likes of you.”

  Valdemar’s mouth moved but no words came out, and his face grew so red it was nearly purple. Then he turned on his heel and fled, leaving Blaidd to follow with slow, deliberate steps.

  Becca slowly opened her eyes. She was in bed, in her father’s—Lord Throckton’s—luxurious bedchamber. Meg stood at a table across the room, washing something in the basin. The linen shutter on the window was half-closed and the only light came in through the remaining opening, dim and weak. That window faced east, so it must be early morning.

  What was she doing here? What had happened?

  The memories came flooding back: of what she had heard, the attack that had left her wounded, and the fatal, justified thrust of Blaidd’s sword.

  The man she’d believed was her father had tried to kill her. Instead, he’d died in this room, struck down by the man she loved as he defended himself.

  Her side ached, but her physical pain was not important, except perhaps as a fitting punishment for not listening to Blaidd. She should have had faith in his words and not proudly, arrogantly refused to believe him. She should have trusted him.