by Tamara Leigh
Desperately gripping the newest walking stick Thomasin had fashioned and herself delivered after her return to Mathe, he watched his son hasten toward the Boursier woman—only to jump aside when the wolfhound bared its teeth.
Raising his gaze, Ulric had his first near look at the woman Griffin wished to wed. Appearance suffering little from hair that was far from coursing her slender figure, her eyes shone with intelligence and her carriage was self-possessed.
A far different woman this was from Griffin’s first wife. And yet she appealed, even though she had drawn a dagger on his son—or perhaps because she had, demonstrating she, a mere woman, would chance her life for those who belonged to her. Though Ulric’s eldest son had said he would not risk his family for her, he might, indeed, risk himself.
Movement beyond Quintin Boursier drawing Ulric’s regard to the doorway, he cursed. Though it was more than twenty-five years since he had looked upon the man there, he would have known it was Crispin even had he been unaware the stableboy who had become a priest was within his walls.
Loathing how weak he appeared, he walked his hands up the stick until he stood as straight as possible. And ached for the quietus ever denied him. “Enter, Crispin!”
“Lady Quintin”—the priest held to the door frame as if he were as deeply fatigued as Ulric—“you ought not be here. Pray, come away.”
Followed by the wolfhound, she hurried to him.
The moment the big dog was past the bed, Diot raced to the far end of the room and once more took refuge beneath his master’s tunic. Though the brush of fur against Ulric’s ankles was mostly imagined, much of the feeling there lost to him, he found comfort in it.
Quintin Boursier touched the priest’s arm. “Come, sit.”
“My lady, best we—”
“I am not leaving.” She drew him to a bench against the wall.
Ulric further considered the woman, wanting to find flaws in the daughter of Archard Boursier, the ally-turned-enemy who had wheedled Castle Adderstone out of the hands of one more deserving. However, a voice he hardly recognized for how often he closed his mind to it told him he was too many years past that offense and his end too near to waste the weeks, days, perhaps hours left to him. Thus, he tried not to hate this woman who would soon be a De Arell. And was amazed at how near he was to accepting her. Near, but never there.
“Tell me the brigands’ plan, Serle,” he commanded.
“They will come some time in the dark hours after middle night.”
“How know you this?”
“Ere I was freed, I was told that upon receiving word to open Castle Mathe, I am to put powders in the wine served at supper to allow the brigands to more easily enter.”
As had been done at Castle Adderstone last Christmas, Ulric reflected on that which had seen the wife of the Baron of Godsmere abducted.
“Whence did you obtain the powders?” Griffin’s betrothed asked, resentment over her interference causing Ulric’s hands to spasm on the walking stick.
Serle looked across his shoulder. “Packets were sewn into the hem of my mantle. But I vow, never did I intend to use them.”
“You are to let them in by way of the postern gate?” Ulric asked.
“Nay. They are not so foolish to believe even a prodigal truly welcomed home would be given the opportunity to open an outer portal.”
“Then how?” Ulric’s saliva sprinkled the inside of his mask.
“I am to let rope ladders down the outer bailey’s southern wall and the inner bailey’s western wall. Upon reaching the keep, the brigands will enter by way of the garden portal that gives unto the hidden passage leading to your apartment.”
Ulric felt as if struck across the face. “You told them of it?”
“Nay, Sir Otto learned of it whilst he served Griffin.”
But had not breached it. The passage Griffin had ordered built into the inner wall when the diagnosis of leprosy had confined his father to the third floor had not only allowed Ulric to venture out of doors those first years before traversing the steps became too painful, but had provided access to the chapel for prayer and the kitchen cellar for viands during long nights when sleep eluded him. Doubtless, it was by way of the latter’s concealed door Serle had this day stolen abovestairs.
“So you are to unlock the passage to better their chance of taking the keep,” Ulric said.
Serle’s jaw shifted. “That and, as told Griffin, ensure the deaths of those they seek first—Father Crispin and you.”
Ulric glanced at the priest whose face reflected no surprise that he was so marked. “Ere they murder the rest of your family,” Ulric said.
“And the Boursiers and Verduns.”
Ulric jerked his head toward Griffin’s betrothed. “What of her?”
“I heard talk she was to have been Sir Otto’s, that his Foucault blood and Lady Quintin’s would revive their line, but since he was revealed at Castle Kelling and is believed to have died, it seems she is destined for death like the rest of us.”
Recalling the exchange with his eldest son following the unmasking of Sir Otto, Ulric knew it was not as simple as that. But then, Griffin was mostly convinced Serle was unaware Simon Foucault led the brigands. As earlier concluded, providing Denis Foucault’s son could destroy the De Arells, Boursiers, and Verduns, he would seek to wed his niece in the hope of restoring the barony of Kilbourne.
“Thus,” Serle said, “these things I must do to keep ill from Constance.”
Just as Griffin had told that Serle was certain no matter how well he served those who had tortured him he would not be exempt from retribution, Ulric was certain Constance would find the same end as the three barons should the Foucaults prevail.
Would they prevail? If so, not by way of the garden door. To protect those inside the keep, Griffin had ensured that, in the absence of a key and inner access to raise the iron bar, it was impossible to breach without great time and effort that would alert the garrison.
Returning Serle to focus, Ulric said, “The plan to bring down the brigands is of less import than the key. That is what you came for.”
Serle’s gaze wavered. “Aye, but not to let the brigands in. To let myself out.” He took a step forward, only to take it back as if for fear he would once more be pinned. “If Griffin does not work his plan this day, I would leave the keep by way of the passage ere the brigands discover I have failed them. Under cover of cloak, I should be able to gain the outer bailey and slip free of Mathe.”
“And turn your back on your family.”
Serle shrugged a shoulder into which Ulric longed to slam a fist. “This one-armed warrior will not be missed. And now that you know what the brigands intend, it can be turned to your advantage. That is of greater use than my intolerable presence here.”
“It would have been of far greater use had you sooner revealed it!”
“I did what I had to, Father.”
Ulric felt the ache he did on the rare occasion Griffin afforded him the title he believed his sire unworthy of. And his eldest son was not entirely wrong in that. Simon Foucault was not the only one who had made a tool of his son. Ulric had considered his own sons more a reflection of his prowess than theirs. Had his youngest become vulnerable to the foolishness of love because he too much lacked a good self regard beyond how it affected his father?
Ulric shoved the thought aside. Even were he responsible for who Serle had become—whose behavior had humiliated the De Arells—he was no longer accountable. A man could burden others with his shortcomings and failures only so long ere the excuse of youth was lost to him.
“Father, at least tell me I have hope Griffin will end the brigands this day.”
A huff pulled Ulric’s gaze to the wolfhound, who remained at Quintin Boursier’s side though the mangy beast surely wished to pursue Diot. Having all but forgotten his son and he had an audience, Ulric cursed himself.
“Have I hope, Father?” Serle pressed.
If he spoke true of Sim
on Foucault’s belief he had a means of entering Mathe this eve, it was unlikely the brigands would attack the hunting party unless they could be certain of victory. In the absence of that certainty, they had but to wait for night to fall to end the twenty-five-year feud in the blood of those who had gained from Denis Foucault’s fall. Or so they thought.
“Nay,” Ulric said, “I do not believe the brigands will find their end this day. But this night…”
“Then allow me to use the garden door so when the ladders do not appear this eve, I can assure Constance’s safety.”
Refusal sped toward Ulric’s lips, but as he stared at his ruined son, he remembered his joy on the day the midwife had placed the squalling infant in his arms—another boy, unlike Archard Boursier who had but one son and Rand Verdun who had none at that time.
Realizing he was about to acquiesce, Ulric braced his legs apart. “I cannot.”
Serle took a step forward. “Why?”
“I believe what you tell, but that does not mean I believe right. And for naught will I risk endangering those within our walls, especially my grandson who will be the next Baron of Blackwood.” That last was for Quintin Boursier should she think to displace Rhys with a son made of her union with Griffin. “Now leave. All of you.”
“Father—”
“Leave!”
The brightening of his son’s eyes should have disgusted Ulric, but it was the jerk of his own heart that made him long to spray vicious words.
When the door closed behind them, he made good use of the walking stick to reach the nearest chair and eased onto the stuffed cushions. Once Diot was settled in his lap, he propped Thomasin’s gift against his shoulder, removed the glove from his right hand, and watched more than felt his ugly fingers caress the beautiful wood as he entreated, “Quietus, Lord. Pray, soon. Quietus.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Hours. And despite the shadows with which the wood was intimate, the hotter the day grew. Only for that was Griffin grateful his shoulders were not weighted by chain mail. Were the bait taken, that protection would be missed—by Boursier and Verdun as well, where they rode on either side of him, faces and throats glistening with the sweat of vigorous pursuit.
The boar had eluded them, though only because those leading the hunt were loath to bring down their prey lest the brigands required more time to attack. Of equal import, the hunt had progressed too far beyond the wood watch—those men who had lain in wait since the night past to spring this day’s trap.
The brigands were surely tempted, but something held back those who watched from the shadows cast by towering, heavily leaved trees and thick ground foliage for which Blackwood was named. Though Foucault and his men sought an end to De Arell, Boursier, and Verdun, they remained unwilling to bite, and the longer they circled the hook, the more likely harm would befall those Griffin loved. So perhaps the bait needed to be more appealing—to tempt men who were fighting temptation to bring that fight to their enemies.
When next the hunting party paused to refresh themselves and their mounts, Boursier and Verdun agreed to Griffin’s proposal. A quarter hour later, they set out again, and when their game was sighted, strayed farther from the dozen who accompanied them.
The brigands were tempted often over the next hour, movement among the trees and the distant scattering of birds and rodents marking their places, but it was not enough.
As the false prey was allowed to escape, the boar’s pounding hooves causing the dirt to spray, its grunts and squeals growing distant, Griffin cursed beneath his breath. And let in a thought he should not.
Three on the hook was too many to turn the brigands reckless, but one…
Surely among Foucault’s men were a few foolishly eager enough to embrace the opportunity to gain their leader’s favor—and riches—to go against orders.
Think much. Regret little, Griffin tried to subdue the impatience to which he was rarely susceptible. There is yet the morrow and the morrow after.
Having slowed his mount alongside Boursier and Verdun, he peered up and, reading the slant of light forcing its way through the canopy, knew it was mid-afternoon. After a look behind at the knights and men-at-arms who made up the remainder of the hunting party, he said, “When next we flush out the boar, we bring it to ground.”
Boursier’s lids narrowed. Then, spear in one hand, he raised the other that held the reins and thrust auburn hair off his brow. “Aye, if that does not draw them out, we will try again on the morrow.”
Black hair clinging to his skull like a cap, Verdun nodded. “The morrow.”
It was another hour before they once more set a boar to flight, this one larger in height but also girth, which slowed it. Still, it escaped when they attempted to shepherd it back toward the wood watch.
It was then Griffin caught movement in the direction the boar fled. But it was not of that creature, who lacked the speed to have so quickly distanced himself. As he looked nearer upon the figure before it melted back into Blackwood’s shadows, he saw it was a man astride, and was fair certain it was the knight who had tried to kill Thomasin and her husband, and who had thought to make Quintin his prize.
Griffin spurred forward though Boursier and Verdun shouted for him to halt. Leaving behind the protection afforded by the wood watch, he tried to think, but his blood was shot through with anger, impatience, and that which drove Simon Foucault—revenge.
Griffin knew this dark wood, and that such intimate knowledge would make it difficult for the hunting party to stay near, but there was Otto again, wildly guiding his horse between the trees.
Hearing more shouts and the ring of steel, Griffin jerked his head around and saw temptation had won out, that the two barons absent the third and distant from the rest of the hunting party were being set upon by a half dozen brigands.
Griffin slammed his teeth together and turned his destrier. For that, the arrow that punched through skin and muscle before being stopped by bone embedded in his shoulder, rather than his heart.
With a shout less pain than anger, he saw it was too late to escape those closing around him. But there were only four, including Otto, who had turned back.
Griffin halted his horse and snapped the arrow shaft near its entrance. “Four,” he growled, three of whom were on foot, one brandishing a bow whose string was being fit with another arrow, two advancing with drawn swords.
Even with his injury, blessedly to the left shoulder, Griffin was certain he could put down the two with blades. Thus, the sound of battle at his back, he leveled the spear that was to have pushed through the thick skin of a boar and commanded his horse toward the bow-wielding brigand.
The man loosed another arrow, but a yank of the reins caused the shaft to soar past its target. And then the spear hit its mark, and the man howled out of a toothless mouth as he slammed to the floor of the wood to become fodder for scavengers.
Griffin looked around and saw reluctance in the speed with which Otto advanced. Fear over engaging with one whose sword skill surpassed his own? Or did Otto see no need to bloody his hands when there remained two willing to wet their own?
Fear. Otto knew what the one who had been his lord was capable of. And so Griffin gave further proof, riding on the nearest brigand, swerving to avoid the man’s blade, and slicing his own sword just above the neck of the shabby mail tunic. As the brigand dropped, the great vein pulsed its last, turning the rusted links of armor red.
Two remained, and still Otto was in no hurry to take the fight from the brigand who beckoned with his sword.
“Eager to die, are you?” Griffin shouted, grateful for the bloodlust distracting him from the scream of torn flesh.
“Betrayer!” the brigand spat.
Griffin glanced behind at the hunting party. They appeared to be having the same success as he, the wood watch having come out of hiding to quench their blades’ thirst.
Kicking his mount forward, Griffin swung his sword high and leaned hard right to extend his reach and keep h
is opponent’s blade from his horse. Steel clashed, the force of the blow spinning the brigand and dropping him to his knees.
Griffin reined around, and before the brigand could heft his sword high enough to defend his life, ended that life.
“Otto!” Griffin bellowed, and seeing that one fled again, urged his horse after him.
“De Arell!” The Boursier called.
Griffin knew he should look around lest it was a warning—that he should think—but as single-minded as a starving dog a nose away from a meal, he pushed his mount hard to keep Otto in sight.
“Accursed, puking Foucault!” he roared Ulric’s insult, the force of which momentarily distorted his vision and reminded him of his blood loss. But he did not turn aside. He was too near his daughter’s would-be ravisher and murderer…would soon have Otto begging for mercy.
A moment before the blow to the back of his head knocked him over his mount’s neck, past the sound of blood pounding in his ears, he heard hooves approach from behind. Then the ground below sped past, and against that blur he saw his son’s face, next Quintin’s. And as darkness pushed him to the back of its throat, he felt that which so burdened a soul.
Regret.
Terrible regret.
I live. Or do I?
Over and again he questioned how deeply he must regret the pain throbbing through the back of his head, shooting down his spine, and feeding the fires in hips that vied for notice over the burn in the shoulder that had taken an arrow.
If he lived, he was grievously injured. Had he died, God’s displeasure was surely upon him. No heaven, this dark place.
Or was it dark? He lifted his lids and, wincing as light rushed into his eyes, focused on the rough-hewn floor.
Not dead. Merely dying?
Merely, he turned over the word used to describe a death that would leave his son fatherless and his wife a widow, and gave a grunt of wry laughter.
“De Arell.”
