by Nora Roberts
Julian and Cren had their backs to her. They were facing a huge bed in a well-appointed chamber, with green silk bed hangings and draperies, a gold-and-green-threaded tapestry upon the wall, a carved chest of drawers, rugs and rushes upon the stone floors, and a fire in the hearth.
“Quick, my lord, there is no time to be lost. Kill him now!” Cren hissed.
Sword drawn, Julian stared at the white-haired figure lying in the bed.
Arianne recognized him at once. It was Archduke Armand.
Nicholas’s father was alive.
8
Shock flooded Arianne. She almost started forward, but the old duke, who had not seen her, began to speak, and she stayed rooted where she was, surveying the tableau as if it were a scene from some bizarre dream.
“Yes, kill me now, Julian. End this. I’ve suffered enough. I should have been struck dead the day I sent my son away. I believed you…your lies…over Nicholas.”
“I don’t want to kill you, Father,” Julian said in the quietest, most reserved tone Arianne had ever heard him use. Yet he sounded resigned. He was going to follow through!
“But there is no choice,” Julian continued. “A rebellion is under way. I must marshal my men and fight those who would cast out the rightful heir to Dinadan.”
“You’re not the rightful heir. Nicholas is.”
“You disowned him. Banished him. And Cren here claims he is dead. So it is left to me—once you are gone. And so now, lest someone find that the old duke lives still, you must needs be truly gone.”
“Then do it!” the old duke rasped, contempt in his sagging, lined face, as well as grief, a grief so great that Arianne’s heart ached for him, because she knew it was not himself he grieved for but the son he had wronged.
“At least admit to me, before I die, that you were the architect of my feud with Nicholas. You drove the wedge between us with your lies…You paid those peasants to swear they saw him attack that girl…”
“And I paid her to swear to it,” Julian said softly.
The duke groaned.
“What would you have had me do?” Julian demanded, his voice rising, shrill with hatred. “I knew that with him here in this court, I would never have a chance to succeed you. He was the firstborn, and you favored him over me in every way besides. Outright murder would have been too risky. So I found another way.”
“Evil…boy,” the duke whispered, and despite his frailty, his eyes glinted with rage.
“Yes, it’s true. It was wicked of me, wasn’t it?” Julian sneered. “But brilliant, too, you must admit. For that little incident never happened, my lord, none of it—nor any of the other rumors of Nicholas’s wrongdoing that I whispered in your ear.” Julian gave a laugh so low and spiteful that it filled Arianne with horror. “Your precious Nicholas was innocent of it all. Now at last you know the whole truth.”
“I suspected…”
“Ah, yes, you became suspicious, and that’s what forced me to arrange your death. You would have summoned Nicholas some time ago, searched for him and heard him out. You were ready to doubt me and welcome him home, so therefore you left me no choice!”
“You have no choice now, my lord,” Cren spat. “Kill him and let us go down to the fray. You must rally your soldiers and your supporters among the people. There isn’t a moment to spare!”
“You do it!” Julian shoved his sword back into its scabbard. “I cannot. He is my own father—you kill him, quickly, and then we will go…”
“No!” Arianne rushed forward as Cren drew out his sword with a billowing motion of his sleeve. She braced herself between the two men and the duke’s sickbed.
They stared at her in stupefaction, then wrath lit Julian’s face. His eyes glittered like sword points.
“What the devil are you doing here? My wife’s servant dares…”
“You mistake the matter, cousin.” With shaking fingers, Arianne tugged off her wimple, letting her hair tumble free. “I am Arianne come from Galeron to free my brother. He is free even as we speak, Julian. He is fighting alongside Nicholas, driving back your men.” She prayed it was true as she continued imperiously. “Killing the duke will do no good. You have lost. Your reign is over!”
“Nicholas is alive, you say?” Julian sprang forward and grasped her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh so painfully that Arianne nearly whimpered, but she forced herself to remain silent.
“You lie, it cannot be! Cren has announced that he is dead!” Suddenly he struck her across the face. “You would say anything to try to spare your brother!”
The ringing pain from his blow made Arianne blink in fury, but she faced Julian with head held high. “This is the truth! Do you truly wish to continue fighting here, with me—or are you man enough to face the battle raging all through Castle Dinadan? The choice, my brave lord, is yours!”
Arianne flung these words at him with the utmost contempt. She reached out and gripped the weak, trembling fingers of Archduke Armand, who was breathing shallowly beside her.
Cren rushed to the tiny window carved into the stone and peered down at the melee in the courtyard. The air was filled with shouts, screams, groans, and the clanging of swords. Arrows rained down from the watchtowers. Even as he stared at the gallows where the executions were to have taken place this day, he saw a small, dark figure scrambling to ascend the structure.
To his chagrin, he saw it was the gypsy.
“Lord Nicholas lives! He lives! He is within the castle walls, fighting in the name of Dinadan!”
Her rallying shriek echoed even up to that high, secret chamber.
Cren spun away from the window and met Julian’s livid gaze.
“We must kill them both now, my lord, and go down to lead the knights! Our soldiers will win, and the duke’s proclamation that you are to succeed him will still carry weight.”
Julian was literally shaking with anger. “Quickly, then,” he snarled, and, having made up his mind, the utter ruthlessness of his darkest side swiftly consumed him. His sword scraped out of its scabbard.
“Dearest Arianne, you never could learn a woman’s place—you were forever trying to join in the war games of boys. Now you’ll pay the price of death for it.”
But as he advanced on her, Arianne dodged around the small table near the window, keeping him at bay on the far side of it. Breathing hard, she saw Cren rushing toward the duke, and in desperation snatched up the ceramic jug on the table before her. She hurled it at him.
It struck the back of his head, and he groaned, turning a monstrous, glaring face at her.
But the blow had only slowed him down.
“If I had a sword, I would slay you both!” she shouted as Julian started toward her again, but at that instant a hidden panel beside the bed slid open, and Nicholas stepped through.
His garments were tattered and bloody, but he looked splendid and fierce and invincible. His face was flushed, his dark hair slick with sweat, but there was an iron calm in his bearing and in his eyes that bespoke a man in control of his destiny.
Through the rent leather of his tunic, the royal medallion of Dinadan gleamed gloriously against his swarthy chest.
“I have a sword, my sweet love, and I will gladly perform that service for you.”
He seemed to have summed up the situation at a glance, but when his quick hawklike gaze spied his father lying in the bed, all color drained from Nicholas’s face.
Arianne stood frozen, terrified for what he was feeling and thinking at this moment, her heart pounding as she realized that his shock would leave him distracted and vulnerable to Julian and Cren.
“Archduke Armand is not hurt…” she began, but the words died in her throat as she caught the expression on Julian’s face.
He, too, was in shock. Shock at seeing his hated half brother alive and here. But beneath the shock was hatred, a hatred as raw and ugly as an open sore. Then the terrible rage lashed through Julian as his gaze centered on the royal medallion of Dinadan around Nichola
s’s neck.
“The medallion!” he croaked. “You!” He swung his sword in a glittering, deadly arc.
“Kill him!” Julian screamed to Cren and lunged forward. Cren obediently joined the attack against the banished heir.
Arianne flung herself back to the opposite side of the duke’s bed. There was nothing in the chamber that could be used as a weapon, there was nothing she could do but grasp the archduke’s shriveled hand.
“Nicholas will prevail,” she tried to reassure him, but her lips felt numb, and her gaze was fixed in terror on the battle where Nicholas coolly faced two enemies who wielded their swords with deadly intent. It was clear that Julian and Cren had learned their swordsmanship from a master. There was sweat on Nicholas’s upper lip, and he was forced to thrust and dodge and parry at a furious pace as they both came at him at once.
“Julian…you cannot shed…your brother’s blood,” the archduke rasped out feebly.
Arianne would have told him to save his breath. Cren and Julian were attacking as ruthlessly as mongrel dogs fighting over a rabbit. Except that Nicholas was no rabbit.
He was a magnificent warrior, larger and stronger than both of them, and far more agile. Though they had been well trained, he had honed his formidable skills on countless fields of battle. His sword swept and plunged. Deftly he turned aside each vicious thrust. Then, with one mighty blow, he sent Cren’s sword clattering across the floor.
When the astrologer scrambled to retrieve it, Arianne sprang forward. This time she lifted the chamber pot and struck him over the top of the head.
He toppled to the floor, limp as an eel.
“Throw down your sword, Julian.” Nicholas’s eyes were alight with a cold fury that sent shivers up and down Arianne’s spine. “Else I will kill you now.”
“Hah!” Julian sneered and lunged forward then, with a quickness born of hate and desperation. “You may have escaped from that prison, but you will not escape from Castle Dinadan or from me. I will smear your blood across every wall in this chamber! Die, my hated brother. Die!” The sword point glided past Nicholas’s defense and slid toward his chest.
But Nicholas leaped aside just in time and followed up with a vicious thrust of his own. With grim strength he plunged the tip of his sword into Julian’s throat.
Arianne shut her eyes against the gush of blood. She heard a single strangling gurgle, then the thud as Julian’s body hit the floor.
A racking shiver went through her.
When she saw Nicholas next, he was on his knees beside the bed, clasping the old duke’s hand between both of his. His face ashen, he kissed his father’s withered fingers.
“I never thought to see you alive again,” he whispered hoarsely.
“My son. I never thought to have the chance to ask forgiveness.” Tears shone in the duke’s sunken but still lucid eyes. “I condemned you wrongly, banished you, trusted that jackal and would not listen to your pleas…”
“Father, there’s no need…” Nicholas tried to interrupt.
But the duke continued without heeding him. “Julian made it appear…that you had committed those heinous offenses against that girl. He has admitted it. Arianne is my witness.”
“It’s true,” she put in softly, kneeling beside Nicholas. “It was all his doing, just as you suspected. When your father had second thoughts, when he would have called you back, Julian had him declared dead and locked away in this chamber.” She touched Nicholas’s arm. An array of emotions must be besetting him at this moment—love, shock, disbelief, and staggering joy to find his father alive. Not to mention a stunned realization of his own vindication. He looked like a man who’d been struck on the head by an iron beam.
She yearned to embrace him, to kiss away that glazed icy shock, and hold him close against her heart, but he turned swiftly back toward Duke Armand.
“You’re ill. He has harmed you,” Nicholas said sharply, but the old duke shook his head.
“No, a sickness came over me just before he brought me to this place. A…fever. A doctor cared for me here—then Julian had him killed so he would tell no one that I still lived.” His voice broke. A great sigh ran through his thin body as he met his son’s sorrowful gaze.
“I’ll never forgive myself…for being such a fool,” Duke Armand whispered.
Before Nicholas could reply, two figures burst through the narrow opening that Arianne had entered a short time before.
Nicholas sprang to his feet, sword in hand, but it was Marcus and Katerine on the threshold.
“My captain, Felix, and the troops of Galeron are driving Julian’s men from the bailey,” Marcus panted. “Sir Castor and other nobles are fighting beside us. And soldiers bearing your hawk banner are fighting madly, cutting off those trying to flee…My lord!” he exclaimed, astonishment crossing his flushed and battered face as he saw the duke.
“What miracle is this?” Katerine cried, her hands fluttering to her throat.
“It is time…for the fighting to stop.” Duke Armand tried to sit up. Nicholas leaned down to help him. “Julian has caused enough bloodshed, enough division in my kingdom.”
“Then I’ll stop it.” Nicholas spoke with quiet purpose. His gaze softened briefly as Arianne flew toward Marcus and they embraced, their heads touching. He wanted to get down on his knees and thank God that she was safe; he wanted to hold her and inhale the sweetness of her being and thereby banish the stench of death from his soul.
But there was no time yet for gentle thoughts or loving words, or for the healing that only she could give him. The battle still raged below.
As a reminder of this, Katerine suddenly spied Julian’s body and wrenched away, gasping, from the sight.
More were dying even as he stood here, Nicholas reflected, his glance hardening once again.
His father was right. It was time for the violence and strife to end. He knew exactly what he had to do.
The scene below was a panorama of chaos. After Nicholas settled Duke Armand upon the gold-backed chair that Marcus had carried out to the balcony directly beneath the secret tower room, he paused a moment to survey the destruction and ongoing bloodshed below.
Grim-mouthed, he stepped forward and gripped the balcony wall.
“Halt! Lay down your arms! In the name of the archduke, I command you!”
People glanced up, pointed, gasped. The cry was taken up, swelling through the crowd. “Halt! Halt in the name of the archduke!” the people echoed, the chant growing louder as the fighting stopped, and the multitude of the throng took up the cry.
Duke Armand, having been carried down to this balcony where traditionally he had stood countless times to speak to his people, summoned the strength to rise, with Nicholas’s and Marcus’s help, and wave at the stunned watchers below.
A joyous shout went up from the crowd.
“Duke Armand lives! Duke Armand lives!”
“And Julian the usurper is dead!” Nicholas called down, standing sword in hand at the rail. “All men loyal to the true duke, throw down your arms. The false and evil reign of Julian is over!”
Arianne’s heart thundered as she watched what happened next. The will to fight seemed to drain out of Julian’s soldiers like tidewater receding. Some ran—and under Nicholas’s orders, the men bearing the hawk banner reluctantly permitted them to flee the gates. But most of the people in the courtyard cheered and then stared up at the balcony in awe, as Duke Armand, with Nicholas on one side and Marcus on the other, began to speak.
Hushed silence fell. The duke spoke in a raspy voice that yet carried down to his people.
“I hereby proclaim that my firstborn son, Nicholas, is empowered to act on my behalf as your new archduke—to unite the land of Dinadan once more!”
A roar rose up from the multitude. The people were cheering. Tears pricked Arianne’s eyes, and her heart swelled with happiness as she watched Nicholas ease the old duke back into his chair.
“Fealty to Archduke Nicholas!” Sir Castor shouted fro
m the bailey and dropped to one knee.
“Fealty to Nicholas!” went round the cry, and then, as Arianne watched in mounting relief and joy, the whole assembled throng knelt, lifting their faces to Nicholas and the old duke.
Even the gypsy on the scaffold knelt. Arianne saw the smile of satisfaction flash across her face.
A short time later, Duke Armand rested upon his own bed, in the grandness of his own former chambers. Outside, the cheers could still be heard. “Long live Archduke Armand! Long live Duke Nicholas!”
Arianne and Marcus and Katerine retreated to an anteroom to allow father and son a few moments of privacy for their reunion. But they returned when a steady stream of soldiers and courtiers presented themselves to Nicholas, awaiting his orders.
A doctor was summoned for the old duke, and then Nicholas announced that he and Marcus were needed below. Men of both their kingdoms awaited instructions.
Marcus stared at Nicholas, then at Arianne, and grinned.
“Not a bad day’s work,” he said. “Little sister, you have done well. If not for your efforts to find him, this rapscallion might not have arrived to free me from the dungeon—I’d have missed all this day’s festivities…”
“Festivities!” Katerine exclaimed with a shudder.
Marcus grinned at her and kissed her hand.
“If I hadn’t arrived, your sister would have found a way to free you.” Nicholas’s gray gaze was fixed intently upon Arianne’s sparkling face. “She is the most determined woman I’ve ever met.”
Marcus chuckled. “Aye, she is determined.”
“And the most courageous.”
“Well…”
“And the most beautiful.”
Marcus suddenly glanced back and forth between his sister and his friend. There was no mistaking either of their expressions. They might have been the only occupants of the castle.
He flashed a surprised grin at Armand, who raised his eyebrows.
“Well, then…” Marcus began, but Nicholas cut him off.
“We’ll have the wedding at the same time as the coronation,” he announced.
“Wedding!” Marcus and Katerine burst out together.
