by Tamara Leigh
“Appearance?” Ulric said sharply.
“Aye, my lord. Though I know you answered the summons thinking to sacrifice yourself, no other will lose his life to Simon Foucault.”
“What of my son? You would allow him to die?”
“I have not long been acquainted with Griffin de Arell beyond that of the enemy the Foucaults made of us, but I am certain that just as the deaths of others for whom I have a care would be worse than my own death, so ’twould be for him. Thus, the only assurance I can offer is that the end is nigh, and once ’tis upon us, I shall do all in my power to bring him out of this alive.” He moved his gaze to Serle, and despite the dim, his disapproval shone.
Ulric also noticed. “Aye, you must suffer his presence. Regardless of my fate, I would have him witness the demise of the one who branded him a traitor. Now tell me your plan.”
“’Twill unfold better do you concern yourself only with the appearance of being a sacrifice, Baron.”
Dear Lord, grant him success, Quintin sent heavenward and glanced at Thomasin. Her head was lowered, and Quintin imagined their prayers meeting in the air and rising together to fill God’s ears.
“Now come,” Bayard said, “the sooner the Foucaults know you are here, the sooner we can end this.”
They are here. It was Griffin’s first thought when he heard the sounds of gathering horses and voices amid the ache of returning consciousness.
Though he longed to rage at being unable to prevent others from dying for him, he was in no state to do so.
Slowly moving his mind up his body, he discovered the pressure on his knees was light, his weight spread from feet to hands stretched overhead. Prostrate, then. And the pain…
The back of his head ached, his carved flesh burned, and his shoulder throbbed—that last offering some relief though he did not doubt it would be short-lived. Of further relief was the cool breath whispering across the top of his head—as if through a seam.
Guessing he was laid out before the church doors, he tested his wrists. They remained bound, the rope’s fibers pricking his raw flesh. The same could not be said of his ankles, and he understood the reason. When he was displayed to those who sought his release, he would do so upright, appearing able to go forth to make the trade that was all pretense.
“Is it Ulric de Arell?” Simon’s voice came from behind.
“’Twould appear. He wears a leper’s mask, and now they have him out of the saddle, a walking stick bears much of his weight.”
“And Crispin?”
“Certes, that is the priest. He looks tired but no worse than he appeared at Lady Thomasin’s wedding.”
“What else do you see?”
“What I did not expect—the ladies Elianor, Thomasin, and Quintin.”
Be still! Griffin silently commanded. If he died here, his daughter and wife would bear witness. However, as his anger moved toward Boursier for summoning them, he snatched it back. The Baron of Godsmere knew that if his sister’s husband could not be saved, she would be forever haunted by what happened here. Thus, the ladies’ presence had to be of their own doing.
And therein lay the folly of wedding strong women who refused to be moved about like chattel. But more, the blessing, he conceded, remembering Quintin at his side—sitting at table, walking the bailey, riding the land, lying in bed.
“That is unexpected,” Simon drawled, “and welcome. For the death of your mother, Lady Elianor will witness our revenge. For the ill worked upon you, Lady Thomasin will watch die those she loves. And Lady Quintin shall lose her betrothed of whom she is much too fond.”
“Then you will kill Baron de Arell regardless if his father and the priest trade themselves.”
“Not I. You, Otto. And soon.” When that was met with silence, Simon’s creaking boots carried him forward and one delivered a blow to Griffin’s ribs that sent the air out of him on a loud groan. “Awaken, De Arell. The sacrificial lambs have arrived.”
Griffin raised his gaze up over Foucault to the man’s dark eyes.
“’Tis a marvel you live considering how much blood you have lost.” Simon shifted his regard to the floor, moved it toward the altar. “A pity we had to drag you so far. The village priest will not like his floor being marked where a De Arell paid the price of dirt and betrayal.” He sighed. “And now ’tis time to make a trade—of sorts.”
The thought of his father’s and the priest’s deaths tearing at him, Griffin assured himself Boursier and Verdun were not so fool to believe a trade would be honored. They but did what he would do—sought opportunity in the appearance of answering Simon’s demands. He had to believe that, else whatever sense was left to him would be given to raging.
Another kick to the ribs, this time a crack of bone that made Griffin call upon the Lord.
“On your feet, De Arell!”
He pulled a long breath, then slowly heaved onto his knuckles and knees. Feeling the pain of his every injury, he straightened and braced his legs to counter the shifting floor and walls and take another accounting of his body. With only the binding about his wrists, he was no longer without recourse.
“Come, Otto,” Simon said, “prove yourself worthy of the Foucault name and—”
“Fear not,” Griffin said. The words sounding as if dragged across rocks, he tried to stir moisture from his mouth. Finding little, he continued, “’Tis no feat to prove worthy of that name. You have but to look upon the letters cut into the back of a man strapped to a prayer kneeler to know you have many times over proven yourself.”
Simon once more thrust fingers into the arrow wound, making Griffin arch his back and nearly dropping him as he withheld the bellow of pain he would not have his daughter and wife hear.
“Foucault!” Magnus Verdun shouted as Griffin willed away the lights shattering before his eyes.
Simon pulled his fingers from the wound. “Otto!”
As the candlelit room returned to focus, Simon’s son stepped to Griffin’s back. Then it was that one’s blade at his throat.
Griffin watched Simon position himself before the doors and press hands to them as if to throw them open. Though to do so would expose him to an arrow or spear, he need fear neither with his captive visible behind him, a blade at his neck.
“Your terms are met!” Verdun called.
Simon lowered his head as if in prayer.
Griffin did not want to believe one as godless as he would dare entreat the Lord to bless his murderous endeavors, but just as Griffin had asked the Lord’s blessings upon his acts against Boursier and Verdun whilst they feuded, justifying what he did as retaliation meant to keep the wolves from his lands and his people, Simon surely believed himself in the right—and that if he could convince the Lord of it, he would bathe the ground in blood.
“I want to live,” Otto whispered.
Though that did not surprise, Griffin’s failing body jerked. Keeping his gaze on Simon, he said low, “Then cut my bonds, yield the dagger…and we shall let the king decide what to do with you.”
A huff of disbelief. “I will hang or worse.”
“Certes, if you do your father’s bidding, here you die. Cut my bonds.”
“After what happened with your daughter, you will kill me.”
It would be a great temptation. “My word I give,” Griffin whispered. “Do you get out of my way, you will not die at my hands. Now do the only honorable thing left to you.”
The blade against his neck momentarily eased, then Otto said, “I cannot. Either way, all is lost, revenge the only purpose I shall serve in this life.”
So be it, Griffin silently agreed.
“Make ready,” Simon barked, then tossed open the doors to torchlight that momentarily blinded Griffin and sharpened the pain slicing through the back of his head. Determinedly resisting the weight in every muscle and bone, he moved his gaze over those outside.
Boursier and Verdun were mounted side by side, their men and Griffin’s forming a wall left and right that surely enc
ircled the church. Just in front of them stood Ulric and Father Crispin. And in back of Boursier and Verdun were the wives King Edward had forced on the three barons—solution and punishment to their feuding. Now blessings.
Quintin’s gaze awaited Griffin’s, but he held it only a moment. There was too much fear and longing there, distracting him from what was more important at this moment—finding the narrow opportunity when the weapon the Foucaults made of him could be turned against them.
Think much, he reminded himself. Pray much. Regret little.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The pain of looking upon Griffin’s suffering nearly bent Quintin over her horse. Were he not a powerfully-built man, he would be on his knees, perhaps even dead.
The light of torches spilling into the church’s dim interior revealed one side of his face was darkened with bruises, a wound to the shoulder glistened with blood trailing down his bare chest to his chausses, and the skin over his ribs on the other side was flushed and swollen as if having sustained a terrible blow.
“Preserve him, Lord,” she whispered. And was grateful when her hands were gripped by Griffin’s daughter on the left and Bayard’s wife on the right.
Seeing Thomasin spilled her own sorrow down her cheeks, Quintin squeezed the young woman’s trembling fingers and looked to the church where knights on either side hunkered in the shadows awaiting an opportunity to enter through the shuttered windows. And the mounted men surrounding the church were weapon ready—arrows trained on Simon Foucault, hands on sword hilts.
“Oh, have mercy!” Thomasin gasped and began to whisper the paternoster.
“He is not alone,” Elianor said softly.
Quintin looked around and nearly sobbed at the compassion on the lady’s face.
Now it was Bayard’s wife squeezing Quintin’s trembling fingers. “We are here with him the same as the Lord,” she said and bowed her head.
Quintin knew she should resume her own prayers, but movement at the church doors drew her gaze.
Her mother’s brother stepped outside. Torchlight cruel to the lower half of his face, he raised his arms high and dropped his head back. “Thou prepares a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anoints my head with oil. My cup…” He splayed his hands. “Lord, how it runneth over!” He dropped his arms and slapped a hand to his sword hilt. “What think you, Crispin? Is God not on my side this day?”
The priest was long in answering, and when he did, there was strength in his voice Quintin had not heard in a long time. “Certes, son of Denis Foucault, you are in the presence of enemies, but those of your own making, those who seek an end to the suffering to which you have sentenced the people who are no longer of Kilbourne but of Godsmere, Emberly, and Blackwood.”
Foucault snorted. “With your aid, they first made enemies of me. And when this is done, I will not go into that hell of their making alone. You shall be on my left, and the most unworthy of my father’s liegemen will be on my right.” He looked to the old baron. “Remove the mask that I might be certain ’tis truly the feeble, worm-eaten Ulric de Arell.”
When Ulric did not comply, Simon said, “Having found a more satisfying means of making your heir scream like a woman, I have not finished branding him a traitor as I did your youngest son. Hence, remove the mask, else I shall see him cut again.”
With a shaking hand, Ulric slid the mask up off his face. Whatever he revealed that Quintin could only guess at from the little she knew of leprosy, it made Simon Foucault crow.
“Justice! A long, painful, grotesque death. Why, had the devil to choose between you and me, I would be bound for heaven even had all of me been burned alongside my soul.”
“Craven, half-faced, flap-mouthed canker!” Thomasin cried.
Simon Foucault moved his gaze to her. “Ah, Lady Thomasin, the foul fruit of her father’s loins. I was disappointed when Magnus Verdun rescued you from my men ere they could work their perversions on you for my enjoyment.”
“Men you murdered!”
He shrugged. “They proved useless—should easily have felled the tic-ridden Baron of Emberly. But I righted their wrongs, honoring you and your husband by making wedding presents of their corpses.”
“Verdun!” Bayard said sharply, and Quintin knew Thomasin’s husband had made as if to move against Foucault.
“Aye, Verdun,” Simon drawled, “control thyself—always, lest the truth of you be known.” He glanced behind. “I quite like this, Otto. Keep up your guard lest these traitors attempt to take this from me as well.”
Attempting a broad smile, he moved his gaze to the woman beside Quintin. “Elianor of Emberly, you proved a good diversion for Aude when your uncle sent her to serve you after Constance was ordered to the convent and Serle sent on pilgrimage.” He shifted his gaze to the latter. “I wonder, if not for this day, would you have let me into Mathe this eve? Or would you have betrayed me?”
Though Serle seemed to sink into himself, he said in a voice that belied his shame, “Never would I have let you into Mathe.”
Simon played the silence well, letting it cast doubt on the verity of that claim.
And making Serle shift nervously. “This chance to wreak revenge on my family was your only chance,” he said more loudly.
“Ah, but what was has become, and I intend to wreak much.” He returned to Elianor. “As told, you were a good diversion. How Aude laughed at your gratitude as she stingily doled out powders to keep your first husband from your bed—almost as much as she laughed over the coin he paid her to keep watch over you lest your eyes and thoughts strayed to other men—”
“Enough!” Bayard shouted, and now it was Verdun holding him back.
Though Elianor appeared to have gone completely still, Quintin felt the quake of her hand.
“You are right. I go too far.” Simon raised a gloved finger. “One thing more, then I shall address my brother.”
Quintin glanced at Rollo who sat his horse alongside Elianor and noted the big man’s narrowed lids.
“Most unfortunate for you, Lady Elianor, the tales Aude carried to your husband pushed him to his worst, causing you to huddle beneath the covers, claw at the sheets, and pray—oh, how you surely prayed!—for his death.”
A sword exiting its scabbard sang a song of steel, but whatever harsh words Verdun spoke to Bayard stayed the Baron of Godsmere from spurring his destrier forward.
“Quite the friend you have there, Boursier,” Simon exclaimed. “And I am sure the Baron of Blackwood is grateful to Verdun as well. But worry not, I am done with your lady wife. Rollo!”
“Simon!” the man-at-arms shouted with what sounded like challenge.
“You are among my greatest regrets. Had I known the half-wit I made of you would grow into an enormous man whom Archard Boursier would put to good use, I would have held you under the water longer to ensure you were not just dead, but very dead.”
“’Twas the Lord what saved me that I could keep Lady Quintin and Lady Elianor from yer clutches. Ye is not a God man.”
Foucault’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, but I am a God man. Like Him, I have held the lives of many in my hands, and now the life of Ulric de Arell’s son is mine to do with as I please. To trade or slay.”
“For which we are here,” Bayard barked. “As we weary of your boasting—your pathetic attempt to hold captive the last audience that shall ever suffer your presence—let us be done with it.”
Simon laughed. “We are done with it when I say. Now let me think on what boasts would flay you, Boursier.” He gestured at his eye. “That is already known—the cuckolding Aude and I planned and which you, Constance, and De Arell’s pup so eagerly accommodated. Ah, your father!”
“I am aware your lover poisoned him, that when Lady Maeve discovered it, your threats against her daughter’s life made her your pawn.”
Simon groaned. “You spoil my surprises.”
“It sits well with me.”
“What of you, Lady Quintin? Will you also
disappoint me?”
She blinked at finding Foucault’s eyes upon her. “Already I have. Never will I be your prize, and after this day, the Foucault name will be no more. A good thing.” She glanced at Rollo. “Nay, a God thing.”
As she waited out the silence, she looked to Griffin whose chest glistened with what she feared was fever. How much longer could he stand? How much more blood could he shed ere he was lost to them?
She released Elianor’s and Thomasin’s hand and urged her horse forward.
“What do you?” Bayard demanded as she came alongside.
She leaned near. “My husband dies. This must end.”
“Not with you. Never again will you place yourself between warring men.” Then he called, “Your terms are met, Foucault. Send forth Baron de Arell, and his father and the priest will come to you.”
“Ha! I am to trust a Boursier? Nay, when I am ready to trade, ’tis me you will have to trust. And I am not ready. My niece and I have much to discuss.”
Quintin sat straighter in the saddle. “I have naught else to say to you.”
“Truly? No questions needing answers? No accusations?”
“’Tis enough to know you are my uncle in name only, that when the devil moves among God’s people he does so in the person of Simon Foucault.”
His upper face flushed. “Clearly, you need convincing. Otto, make Griffin de Arell scream.”
“Nay!” Quintin cried.
Another horrid smile, then he crooked a finger. “Come closer.”
“Do not!” This from Griffin, loosed at the same moment Bayard snatched hold of her reins.
“Not again,” her brother said.
“But Griffin is—”
“Not again!”
Her tears were not meant to move him to a place he had vowed he would not allow her to go again, but when she glimpsed softening in his singular gaze, she said low, “There is not yet a means of freeing Griffin, so allow me to venture a bit closer. My word I give I will not move beyond Ulric and Father Crispin until you tell me ’tis safe.”
