At the Warrior's Mercy

by Denise Lynn

  In the flickering torchlight she saw his shoulders bunch as he leaned low, getting ready to lunge.

  She threw herself at Emelina, screaming, ‘One left, one right!’

  Emelina fought like a wild animal, swinging the knife blindly, the fingers of her free hand curled trying to gouge anything she could reach. She backed Beatrice down the side tunnel.

  Beatrice swiftly sent up a prayer for forgiveness for what she was about to do. The second her foot hit a dip on the darkening path, she started counting footsteps while fending off Emelina. When she reached thirty steps, she quickened her pace, turned and ran towards the sound of the wind. She counted twenty more paces before she threw herself against the wall of the cave.

  Not expecting the move, Emelina’s momentum kept her moving forward—a step too far.

  The woman’s fading scream echoed through the tunnel.

  ‘Beatrice!’

  Still hugging the wall, she called out, ‘I am here, hold on. Let me come to you.’ The last thing she wanted was Gregor following Emelina over the edge by accident. If the strength of wind whipping just inside the mouth didn’t pull you out, the overhang of the opening was deceptive. By the time anyone could realise the floor didn’t extend as far as the walls and overhang, it was too late to do anything to save themselves.

  ‘I am right here.’

  She followed the sound of his voice in the dark with her hands outstretched. The instant her fingers made contact, he grabbed her and pulled her against his chest.

  ‘Are you unharmed?’

  Now that it was over, she was trembling like a leaf in the wind. ‘No. I cut my hand with a rock.’

  ‘We need to get you out of here.’

  At his hesitation, she offered, ‘Put the breeze at your back.’

  He turned them around on the path and headed back to the main cave.

  The bodies of Charles and his man lay on the floor. The sword wounds to their chests had been fatal. Her father and Sir Simon stood near the bodies, their weapons still in their hands.

  The hard-packed dirt floor beneath her started buckling like storm-swept waves upon the sea. Beatrice stumbled, unable to remain upright on the moving ground. ‘Gregor, I... Gregor...’

  She vaguely heard his shout at the same time his one arm came behind her unsteady legs to lift her from her feet and the other cradled her back to hold her against his chest.

  * * *

  The next thing she knew, she was resting on a bed. ‘Lady Roul, can you hear me?’

  She frowned. Who was the stranger talking to?

  Gregor asked, ‘Beatrice, can you hear me?’

  Opening her eyes to complete blackness, she said, ‘Yes, I can hear you.’ Her heart raced as she gasped for breath. ‘I can’t see you.’

  Frantic, she tried to raise her arm, but it was being held down and someone was stabbing her palm. She struggled to sit up only to have strong hands push her shoulders back down on to the bed. ‘Stop. You are safe.’

  The bed dipped as someone sat next to her. ‘It is fine,’ Gregor assured her. ‘Here, let me move the cloth.’

  A damp weight was lifted from her face, forcing her to squint against the bright torchlight. She recognised the midwife’s cottage, but not the man sitting next to the bed with his wrapped-up foot on the edge of the mattress while he stitched a nasty gouge closed on her palm.

  Gregor nodded towards the man. ‘This is Sir Matthew. He is Matilda’s surgeon. I thought he would do a better job sewing your hand back together than your father or I could.’

  She glanced at the man’s foot. The surgeon laughed, then explained, ‘I fell off the deck of the forecastle and broke my foot.’ He leaned closer to add in a near whisper, ‘I had to set the bone myself. And I have to admit, it hurt.’

  Beatrice laughed, then winced as a sharp pain laced through her head.

  Matthew said, ‘I wouldn’t advise much laughing for a day or two. They whacked you on the head hard enough to break it.’

  A rumbling laugh she recognised as coming from her father rushed across the cottage. ‘We always knew she had a hard head. Now we have proof.’

  ‘Randall, don’t torment the girl.’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’ Her mother came and sat on the other side of the bed. She leaned over to brush Beatrice’s hair from her face. ‘And by the way, sweeting, you are Lady Roul.’

  ‘Oh. That’s right.’

  Gregor snorted.

  The surgeon finished the last stitch and snipped the thread. While he wrapped a cloth around her hand, he said, ‘This is going to hurt for a while. If it’s your sword hand, I would suggest not testing your weapon too soon. Allow it time to heal first.’

  ‘Not something I need worry about, since I’m not very adept at fighting.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, my lady, hear tell you handled yourself admirably and hardly needed rescue. And I am positive this wound didn’t come from any sewing session. Did you truly use a rock?’

  ‘I had nothing else.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm. Well, you rest.’ He turned to her father. ‘If you could get my assistants to help me, I’ll return to the ship and check in on her tomorrow.’

  Her mother reached across to tap Gregor’s shoulder. ‘Go back to the keep and change. See to your men. I’ll sit with her until you return.’

  He leaned over to kiss Beatrice’s forehead. ‘I will be back as soon as possible. Is there anything I can bring you?’

  Beatrice plucked at her gown. ‘Something other than this.’ Her hand flew to her head. ‘Oh, no, the circlet.’

  ‘Is not lost.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘It was lying on the steps leading down to the cells.’

  Once the men left, Beatrice sighed and tried to get comfortable, but she was stiff and sore and nothing seemed to ease her discomfort.

  Her mother distracted her by saying, ‘I think we may have a problem.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘The two of them are up to something and I like it not.’

  Baffled, she asked, ‘What could they be up to?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what I don’t like. They whisper together like a couple of young boys plotting mischief.’

  Beatrice groaned. The idea of King Henry’s Executioner and King David’s Wolf plotting something together could be a recipe for trouble.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Beatrice’s scream jerked Gregor upright on the bed. She fought an imaginary foe in her sleep—again. He had hoped that leaving an oil lamp burning in the bedchamber might have lessened her dreams. Unfortunately, that hadn’t seemed to help.

  ‘Beatrice.’ He gently shook her, trying to drag her from another night terror. ‘Wake up.’

  She threw herself against his chest, sobbing. ‘I killed her.’

  It was the same complaint as last night. He didn’t know how to make her understand there hadn’t been a choice in Lady Emelina’s death. ‘Stop this. Beatrice, it was you or her and you certainly couldn’t fight the woman with your hand torn open and bleeding. What else were you going to do?’

  She’d barely slept the last two nights. That first night in the cottage had been terrible. So her parents had easily agreed to take the cottage, thinking that perhaps being back in her familiar bedchamber might lessen her distress. But it hadn’t done so in the least.

  The dark circles beneath her eyes and the fear that never left her darting gaze tore at his heart. He didn’t know what to do for her. He hated the way she shook—terrified of the memory that wouldn’t leave her alone even in her sleep.

  ‘I led her to her death. Intentionally.’

  ‘And she was chasing you with a knife. Do you think she would have hesitated to use it on you?’

  ‘I should have stayed in the
cave and not led her down the tunnel.’

  ‘You followed your gut, it is what probably saved your life.’ He stroked her hair and rocked her. ‘What’s done is done, Beatrice.’

  ‘It was a grievous sin.’ Her voice was hardly a whisper.

  ‘Have you talked to your priest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did he say?’ He’d already talked with Father Peter. So he knew the man had tried to explain to her that what she’d done was in self-defence, therefore not considered murder. In desperation the priest had given her a penance and absolution.

  ‘That it was not murder.’

  ‘Still you didn’t believe him. Not even after he absolved you of your imaginary sin?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Oh, Beatrice, what are we to do with you? Tell me how I can help you.’ He was serious. At this moment he would do anything to give her peace from the fear eating at her.

  When she remained silent, he mused, ‘It is too bad you are not one of my men, I could deal with you as I did the guard who let this happen and be done with it.’

  She pulled away from his chest and looked at him. ‘This wasn’t the guard’s fault.’

  ‘I beg to disagree. Had the two of them not let Lady Emelina distract them, they would both still be alive and you wouldn’t have been injured.’

  ‘Both still be alive? Did you put the other one to death?’

  ‘What are you thinking?’ He looked at her in shock. ‘No. But at the present my squire has more responsibilities than he does.’

  ‘That is not fair.’

  ‘Fair? What does fair have to do with it? He is a guard. I am his liege. I gave him an order. He failed to follow the order, resulting in death and injury to others. He doesn’t get to apologise and pretend nothing is amiss. Right now he should be grateful that he isn’t without a position at all.’

  Beatrice sniffed back tears and laid back down on the bed. Gregor looked at her. She was sad. She was upset. She was afraid. And he was at the end of his patience.

  ‘I need something to drink. Can I bring you anything?’

  She shook her head.

  Gregor sighed. Never before had he been at such a loss as to what to do. He patted her shoulder. ‘I will be back.’

  He left the bedchamber knowing she wouldn’t fall back to sleep while she was alone. Thankfully he saw Almedha in the Great Hall and asked her to keep Beatrice company. He needed some time alone, to think, to clear his head and to soothe the anger poking at him. He was angry with the whole situation. And, yes, to his dismay, a little irritated with Beatrice.

  How was he going to make her understand, to see reason?

  Gregor saw Simon shaking his head as he approached. The man extended a flagon of wine, asking, ‘Is she still having bad dreams?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And of course you’ve explained that she is not to blame for the woman’s death.’

  Again Gregor answered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘So the Lady of Roul is reacting in the same manner as the Lord of Roul does.’

  ‘What?’ Gregor rubbed his pounding forehead.

  ‘She is no more to blame for Lady Emelina’s death than you are for Sarah’s.’

  Not willing to talk about his first wife, or himself, any further in the crowded hall, even if most of the men there were asleep, he motioned towards his private chamber.

  Once behind the closed door, Simon changed the subject and asked, ‘Have you told her about tomorrow?’

  ‘No. I think it would be safer not to.’

  ‘And when she discovers what is happening?’

  Gregor smiled. ‘I believe it is your task to keep the women from the field of battle.’

  ‘You sound certain it will come to that.’

  ‘Would you give all of this up without a fight?’

  His man shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Neither would I.’ He took a swallow of the wine, then handed the container back to Simon. ‘Go find your bed. I think I’ll spend the night here.’

  Once Simon left, Gregor kicked his feet up on the desk. After he and FitzHenry faced each other tomorrow, he would soon discover just how much his wife wanted to be married to David’s Wolf.

  He should be spending this last night with Beatrice since it might be a very long time before he’d get the chance to do so again. However, with her current state of mind, he didn’t see tonight being any different from the last two. Her focus would not be on his touch and later her sleep would be fitful. Besides, he needed some sleep before the sun rose. The last thing he wanted to do was to face her father without having all his wits about him.

  With a soft curse, Gregor lowered his feet and shoved away from the desk. No. He wasn’t spending this night alone.

  * * *

  When he walked back into their bedchamber, Almedha held her finger to her lips before she left. Beatrice was sleeping.

  He undressed and then stood by the bed, looking down at her. Her frown creased her forehead and she mumbled in her sleep. Gregor wanted to soothe away the frown lines, but didn’t want to wake her up.

  But then she looked up at him. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Watching you sleep.’

  Beatrice pulled down the covers. ‘Come to bed.’

  He slid under the covers and she instantly rolled on to her side and pressed her back against his chest.

  She came to him so willingly. It was too bad she couldn’t trust his words as easily as she did his body.

  He curled an arm around her, holding her close. She entwined one hand with his, bringing it to her lips. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’ Gregor moved his head closer, whispering against her ear. ‘I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘Your patience.’

  Little did she know how much he wanted to rage from the uselessness he felt.

  ‘How did you bear it?’ she asked.

  ‘Bear what?’ She was so warm and soft against him. It was difficult to keep his attention on her words and not give in to the demands of his body.

  ‘Killing your first man?’

  ‘Beatrice.’ This was something he shouldn’t have to discuss with his wife. He was supposed to have protected her, not left her in a danger so great that she’d had to defend herself to the death.

  The part that sickened him was that she’d been right—to a point. He’d known that Emelina had been up to something. But like his wife he’d thought the woman had wanted him in her bed. There hadn’t been the slightest clue that her real intent had been to kill him or anyone else who got in her way.

  He moved enough to roll her on to her back next to him. ‘Beatrice, I am so sorry. This never should have happened.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Yes, it was. I knew your suspicions had been right. But like you I thought she’d wanted something else entirely.’

  She looked up at him, a small smile playing about her lips. ‘And here I thought you were so naïve that you didn’t know when a woman was trying to seduce you.’

  He laughed. ‘Yes. That’s me, innocent and naïve.’

  She drew a finger along his collarbone. ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘It was during a battle and came down to me or him.’

  ‘That simple?’ Her finger trailed down the centre of his chest.

  ‘Yes, it is just that simple. You either choose life, or you choose death. I much prefer living.’

  ‘So do I, but I would make a terrible warrior.’

  ‘Actually, you wouldn’t. While accepting the outcome is simple, the taking of a life is not simple, nor easy. It was not meant to be easy, Beatrice. That is the whole idea. If you stop feeling bad or guilty for ending a life, then something is wro
ng with you. I would not have a soldier under my command who felt no guilt, no remorse.’

  She frowned as if considering his words. And when her frown cleared it was all he could do not to sigh in relief.

  ‘Gregor?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I still ask you anything?’

  ‘That’s not changed.’

  ‘If I am not to carry Emelina’s death in my heart, why do you carry Sarah’s?’

  That was a hard question. One that even Simon had hinted at. While he’d been rather angry at Simon’s hinting, he wasn’t put off by Beatrice’s question. In fact, for the first time the question didn’t make his chest tighten.

  ‘I don’t know, Beatrice. I was young and I’d had such high hopes for the two of us, for our future together, that I’d never expected, or dreamed, she would do something so rash, so horrific to herself because of who I am.’

  ‘Do you think she was perhaps weak and too fearful to be rational?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ More than possible, it was most likely true.

  ‘I think Charles was that way, too. He certainly went out of his way to invite death of late. It was as if he wanted you to kill him.’

  ‘I agree. Charles did seem to lack the ability to be rational.’

  ‘Do you think Lady Emelina would have killed me?’

  He was thankful that she’d turned their conversation away from Sarah. Somehow Beatrice’s simple logic had begun to ease the festering pain he’d carried for so long. He needed some time to accept the idea that maybe Sarah’s weakness hadn’t been his fault.

  ‘Emelina knew all was lost, so, yes, I am sure she would have.’ Although right now, with Beatrice caressing his abdomen with the palm of her hand, he was more certain that she was going to be the death of him.

  ‘Gregor?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She rolled on to her side and stroked her palm along the hard length of his erection, asking, ‘Do you think we could—?’

  He didn’t wait for her to finish her question before nudging her on to her back and settling between her legs. When she hooked her legs around his and pulled him to her, he knew without a doubt that he hadn’t mistaken her request.