Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

"Very well, then. If you won't go for Father's sake, then go for your own. Do that which is right, you always have."

  Richard clapped both hands to his forehead, near-exasperated. "I am! My duty is here, and it is more important than anything, including Father dying, including my soul's rest in the next life. God's merciful, or so I'm told, and I think He will forgive me if I'm here trying my best to keep His anointed king on his throne."

  Edward held silent, his jaw working, his eyes grown hot. For a moment he seemed to verge on giving in to anger, but it gradually passed. "All right," he finally said in a quiet voice. "I've done my duty, and can see it would be a sin to press you to go against your conscience on this. It is your conscience, isn't it?"

  "Yes. Take me back there, and I'd be on my knees for the rest of the year confessing the lies I'd have to speak to get through it. But, Edward, please know that I am sorry you must bear this alone."

  He chuckled. "I, of all people, am not alone. Hm?" He flicked his gaze briefly toward the tent ceiling.

  "Sometimes I forget who and what you are."

  "Well, that's good. There are days when I get so full of the bowing and respect and the blessing and all the rest I could just rip at the seams."

  Richard blinked. "Really?"

  Edward cocked his head. "Actually, no, I quite love it."

  They stared at each other a moment, then erupted into laughter. It didn't have the same light-heartedness of their long lost youth, but was richer for their mutual understanding.

  "I've missed you, Dickon. I'd hoped that on the journey back we would have time to talk, but it's not to be. I must leave at first light and pray I'm not too late on my return."

  "What ails him?"

  He shrugged. "Age. He has a sense this is his last summer. I've seen the same with others. Some just know their time has come, and they prepare. I'll tell him your duty holds you here. Which is the truth."

  "What about Ambert?"

  "He's mostly the same, more girth, not nearly as loud as he was, saves his strength that way. He doesn't snarl at me as he once did, and he gave up trying to hit me years ago. Might even be mellowing."

  "That would be a miracle."

  "So, all those prayers of mine have wrought some good." He smiled, but it faded. "When this is over . . . will you come and visit me? A real visit. You need never see Castle d'Orleans."

  He solemnly took Edward's hand. "I swear I will do that."

  "God will that you be spared."

  Richard murmured agreement. "You need rest, I think. This tent's yours for the night, it has the best bed. I'll have someone bring coals for the brazier, warm it up a bit. Our summer nights can get cold. Ask and they'll bring you anything you want."

  "Where will you sleep?"

  "I've another place. Don't have much need of sleep lately. Generally I keep watch with the men."

  "I better tell mine what's going on while I still can."

  They emerged to find Edward's escort had been looked after as honored guests. Fed and bedded down, Edward sought out their captain and gave him the news of their morning departure.

  "Will Lord Richard not be coming with us?" The captain shot Richard a look of unabashed curiosity. A young man, he might well have grown up on tales of the one-time undefeated Champion d'Orleans. They'd have to be whispered, too. Richard heard Ambert loathed any reminder of having a youngest brother and had been known to flog people who accidentally mentioned the fact.

  Edward glanced around, apparently mindful of other ears who did not need to know of Richard's past. "He will remain. While we're here, always call him Lord Lancelot, hm?"

  "Yes, my lord bishop."

  "No need to set up my tent. His lordship is kindly loaning me his for the night. Sleep while you can, we leave for the coast at dawn. If there's any way of telling when the sun's up."

  "I'll let you know," said Richard.

  * * *

  "Did I make the right choice?" he asked Sabra later. They walked slowly on the edge of the camp, making round after slow round, keeping watch in the night that was their day. He'd already told her of his conversation with Edward. Sometimes she answered such questions, but others she did not, seeing a multiplicity of futures, often not knowing which was the one that would be. Much of the future—and one never knew which parts of it most of the time—was ever and always in change.

  "You are the best judge of that," she said. "You know the truth of what's best for you in your heart."

  "Well, then, I feel better. My heart has been heavy."

  "And now it's lighter?"

  "Yes. Had I made the wrong decision, you'd have let me know with a different answer. Anyway, I told Edward if there was no war coming still I'd remain here. Why did you not come to meet him?"

  "It isn't time yet. Besides, he only knows of you and the Lady Elaine. I think he'd be more comfortable not knowing about my presence in your life. It's bad enough with the rumors about you and the queen."

  "Best not to add others about me and one of my pages?"

  It was an old joke between them, still able to bring a smile. Everyone in the camp knew the Lady Sabra, but turned a blind eye to her preference for a page's clothes. Though considered immodest, they were much more practical for traveling than her court gowns, and not one of their party ever cast forth a disparaging comment. Even if Richard could not influence them all, she was herself very thorough. Sabra also saw to it their people did not notice many other oddities as well.

  "Yes. The king's enemies have enough false grain for their lie-mills. Let's not give them anything real."

  "Then I will try hard not to kiss you in front of them." He paused, bent low, and caught her squarely on the lips. "There, no one saw that one, I'm sure of it."

  "They'll see less if we're deeper under the trees . . ." She took his hand and led him into thicker shadows within the fog.

  "We're supposed to be on watch," he said.

  "There's no one within two miles of our camp. None are abroad in this murk. And if they were, we'd hear them before the horses did."

  He could trust the truth of her otherwise unconfirmed information "Let's be quiet, then."

  She found a place for them, a moss-cushioned depression beneath an oak as wide as Richard was tall. Its black roots, as big around as his body, thrust high from the soil as though reaching for something. "There's power here," she whispered. "From him." She nodded respectfully at the oak.

  "You're sure he won't mind?" Richard was still sometimes taken off balance by some of the things she said, particularly when she ascribed awareness to objects like trees.

  "He'll enjoy the company."

  Another advantage to her page's clothes: they were considerably easier to remove than her elegant gowns. Grass and mud stains were normal as well. An excellent arrangement for them both.

  That in mind, they both arranged themselves in the makeshift bed. Strangely, there was much more privacy here than they had in his pavilion, surrounded as it was by the camp, certainly better than Sabra's tent, which was full of her female servants with only a drape of linen to separate them from view. Richard liked the change.

  The air was chill on his bare skin, but he had no mind for it, only Sabra. Perhaps she was right about there being power in this spot; he thought he sensed it as a heady rich scent coming from the soil beneath the moss.

  "Were you here earlier?" he asked.

  "How did you know?" There was a smile in her voice.

  "Because of the singular lack of fallen leaves, bark, and twigs. No acorn shells, either." They'd made love in several other forests over the years, and such debris could be very distracting.

  "Silly, it's a male tree."

  He knew better than that. "Oaks put out male and female flowers. You told me yourself."

  "Then this one must be more male than female," she insisted, giggling.

  "I'll show you male," he rumbled.

  She put a hand over her mouth to smother a small laughing shriek as he fulfilled his threat. H
er humor turned to long sighs as his lips roamed over her breasts and flat belly, questing ever lower until reaching her treasure. With a great deal of satisfaction for her response, he lingered long there, growing hard himself, anticipating what was to come. She was the best, the most beautiful, and absolutely unique.

  "Soon now, my love," she murmured.

  Indeed, yes.

  Skin on skin, he moved up again, tasting every part of her. His beast within was quiet this night, strangely peaceful, as was hers, for there was no change in her eyes. There would be no sharing of blood, but this was enough, more than enough.

  Kissing and loving, breathless, yet silent, she let him know she was ready and twisted around so she was facedown on the ground. She spread her arms wide as he rode her, and knew she was embracing the earth itself. Her hands clutched convulsively on the oak's roots when she climaxed, and in his own fever Richard imagined there were three presences there, man, woman, and the unseen, benign spirit of the ancient tree sharing its vast strength with them.

  * * *

  Hours later, the fog vanished and the night sky cleared. Moon and stars shone down coldly on them. The morning would be cloudless and bright. Richard almost cursed. He'd have to spend the day beneath a thick, tightly woven cloak, hood pulled well down, his gauntlets on the whole time to avoid burning. Sabra would have it no better, either.

  For now they continued their slow walk around the camp. The fires gone low, they stopped to add more wood. Sometimes people would wake just enough to notice and nod off again, sometimes not.

  In a way they were still alone and together. Richard longed for a time when they could truly go off by themselves and not have the responsibility of so many others to look after. Perhaps by the fall Mordred's rebellion would be broken, and they'd be free to cross to Normandy. It might be a good thing to maintain the name of Lancelot—he still had fame and respect over there—then Ambert need never know. How amusing it would be, though, if Ambert sent an invitation of hospitality to Arthur's greatest champion only to discover . . .

  It would be worth it for the look on his face. Oh, yes.

  "What makes you smile, my Richard?" Sabra asked. She'd been on the other side of camp and now returned, slipping her arm in his.

  "Something that's likely not to come to pass. You aren't the only one who sees futures that never happen."

  "What did you see?"

  A lift in her tone caused him to glance at her. Her eyes were flushed bloodred from a recent feeding. It made him want her again.

  As she had time and again, she knew his thoughts. "I took enough for us both."

  "Oh?"

  "I fed from two, not one. It would please me to share with you."

  "It would delight me to please you," he returned. They'd often done this for each other. He wasn't hungry, but to have her once more . . . "The oak again?"

  "Just out of the firelight will do. I'll try to be quiet." Hand in hand, she led the way again.

  He could smell the fresh infusion of new bloods rising from her now-rosy skin. This time they stood, she bracing her back against another tree, her feet on its roots, lifting her tall so they were on a level with each other. Their love-play was brief, but intense, for she was eager again for him as well. No need to shed clothes, for the effect when he bit into her soft throat was the same as if they'd been joined in a more traditional manner. She tried to muffle her gasps as he fed from her and didn't quite succeed. No matter. None would pay them notice.

  She held tight to him, urging him to take his fill. He made it last. This was no serving wench to be influenced into forgetting the familiarity, this was Sabra. Her blood-heat ran through his own body, as intense as any climax, touching different areas, fulfilling, nourishing flesh and spirit alike.

  And it was all the more terrible when he chanced to look up and saw Edward's face, ghost-pale in the moonlight. He was only a few yards away, and it was clear from his stunned expression he'd seen everything he shouldn't. Frozen for the span of five heartbeats, he quickly retreated from sight.

  No!

  Sabra's drowsy eyes opened wide. "What is it?"

  "My brother saw us. He knows what I am." Richard was shaking, shot through and through with fear. He broke from her and went seeking.

  He caught up with Edward just on the edge of the camp, dropping a hand on his shoulder and turning him about. Edward whirled, his cross in one hand, a sword in another.

  "Touch me not!" he snapped.

  Richard fell back as though struck. "Wait—please—"

  "Away from me!"

  "Let me explain."

  "There is none for this."

  "I am the same man, your brother. Edward, hear me!"

  Edward paused, his heart's turmoil showing on his face: panic, horror, fear, and infinite, ghastly sorrow. "I see now why you appear so youthful, but God, Richard—why? How could you allow . . . it—it's unclean . . . oh, God . . ." He shot away toward his tent. Richard tried to follow, but Sabra, suddenly catching up, stepped between and stayed him.

  "Let him be," she said.

  "I must go, try to tell him."

  "It won't work. Your brother is unable to hear you now. In the morning."

  "When he can see us cower from the light? That will reassure him."

  "Let him bide alone, he's afraid and must see his own way past it. Let him pray and think and remember who you are." Sabra left, going toward her own tent.

  Richard held off, still disturbed, fearful, still wanting to talk. God, if he lost Edward because of this . . .

  He hated what thoughts his brother must be thinking, what alarms and apprehensions were nesting in his mind.

  I'm not a monster.

  But why should Edward believe him? So many years apart, they were near-strangers, their worlds impossibly different.

  Richard paced, knowing he was too stirred up to wait until dawn, but seeing the wisdom of allowing Edward at least a little time to get over the first shock. If once he was calm enough he would have to listen.

  And if not . . . then Richard would make him listen.

  It was an action that smacked of dishonor, but shameful as it would be to force his own brother's mind to accept a truth, like it or not, better that than lose him to fear and ignorance.

  So be it, but he hoped it would not become necessary.

  Having thought that through, Richard swiped at his mouth, wiping away any lingering blood. His eyes should be normal by now, and Edward— What the devil was that . . . ?

  Richard came alert at activity near Edward's pavilion. Men were moving about in the shadows, their movements furtive. These were not sleepy soldiers scratching themselves early-awake, nothing sluggish about this lot . . .

  And their swords were out.

  He silently drew his own weapon and moved in.

  Sabra! He hoped she would hear and know the meaning of his urgent thought.

  Two men were just entering Edward's tent. Richard grabbed one by the scruff and plucked him from his feet, throwing him well away. The other man completed his rush inside, raised his sword, and struck at the fur-wrapped figure in the bed. The blade bit down swift and hard.

  Roaring, Richard dragged him around. He was the captain of Edward's escort. He slammed his sword pommel against Richard's skull with vicious, killing force, broke clear, and darted from the tent, yelling.

  Shouts and screams ran through the camp, and two more of the escort came at Richard. One of them managed to get a single strike, his sword cutting into Richard's shoulder, but it served only to anger, not fell him. Their deaths were brutal and quick. He saw the captain rushing away, urging the rest of his well-armed company to take them all, take them all.

  Richard's uncanny speed put a halt to that. He was before the man in less than an instant, full of fury. The captain had time to blink once—after his head was off. His body dropped like a stone. Another man bent on avenging his commander hurtled forward, shrieking. He seemed to move ridiculously slow to Richard's heightened perc
eption. He died fast enough, though.

  A dozen yards away . . . fighting by another tent . . . women screaming. Sabra was there.

  Yet another warrior got in Richard's way and was cut nearly in two by his passage, almost an afterthought. More of the escort men, instinctively seeking to take out the greatest threat, mobbed him.

  They were nothing, less than children playing at soldiers, slow and clumsy, and also soon dead. He gave them no mercy, striking them down with the chill efficiency of a butcher at his trade.

  Then they were gone, and he pressed toward Sabra where he'd glimpsed her fighting by the red light of one of the fires. She seemed aflame herself, but that was from splashed blood. Four men lay at her feet, her blade smoking in the cold air from their gore.

  "See to Edward!" she shouted at him.

  He hurtled back, fearing the worst.

  No others came at him, they were either killed or running. His own people had realized the tumult for a traitorous attack, fought back, and were in pursuit.

  Richard tore into the tent, his heart in his mouth as he knelt by the bed. No movement, no heart-sound.

  "Dear, God—Edward . . . ?"

  He choked as he pulled back the coverings. The huddled form beneath had been shaped by Edward's saddle and wadded-up blankets.

  "I've not forgotten all there was to being a soldier," Edward said from the tent opening.

  Richard sagged with boundless relief and came out, but Edward backed from him, cross and sword still before him.

  "You've naught to fear from me, brother." To prove it, he reached and took the cross from him and kissed it. "And I thank our Lord that you are unharmed."

  Edward let out a shaky breath, staring. "Which is more than may be said about you."

  Now that he had time for it, Richard noticed the wound on his shoulder. It was in the same spot as the one that nearly killed him all those years ago, and looked to be as serious. Blood yet flowed, soaking his tunic, blending with the blood of those he'd killed, but he could also feel the burning sensation that meant healing. "I will be well, soon enough."

  "You should be flat and groaning as happened once before."

  "Would you prefer that for me now?"

  "If it meant you would die as a man with prayers to ease your soul's passage. But this . . ."