Medieval Wolfe Boxed Set: A De Wolfe Connected World Collection of Victorian and Medieval Tales

by Alexa Aston

  “This treasure does not belong to Malcolm. It never has. ’Twas brought here long ago, when this land was ruled by others.”

  “It matters not. ’Tis here now on his land, and he claims it. I brought enough men to take it. The valley fools resist, but they will die. All of them, as will you and your friends.”

  Elrik ignored the taunt.

  The grin returned to Dugald’s face. “Aye, I know what happened here this night. One of the perimeter guards told me before I slit his throat.”

  He lunged. Elrik met the powerful blow.

  Back and forth they fought, with Elrik unable to gain the upper hand. The Scot was as skilled in swordplay as in appearing and disappearing without notice.

  Their blades rang as Elrik drove forward, seeking an opening.

  Dugald leapt back.

  He followed, pressing the advantage.

  The move forced Dugald to retreat further, momentum taking him nigh the entrance to the passage. He stumbled.

  Elrik swung from below, the blow arcing for Dugald’s sword arm. With but a heartbeat to spare, Dugald blocked the sweep but his move, executed from an awkward angle, weakened his grip. The power behind Elrik’s blow knocked the sword from his hand. The weapon clanged as it landed on the rock floor, out of reach.

  Dugald snatched the jeweled knife from his belt.

  Elrik moved in, determined to end the conflict, but hard footsteps pounded in the corridor. Two of Dugald’s men burst into the chamber. They flanked their leader, forcing Elrik’s withdrawal.

  The Scot grinned, but no mirth reached his eyes. “How goes the fight, Coll?”

  “In our favor, sir. ’Tis soon over.”

  Before Elrik could respond, a new, stealthy movement at the opening to the passage distracted him.

  By the saints, ’twas Yrsa, and from behind her skirts peeped tiny Alured, the child with the golden brown hair he met earlier at the bridge. Dugald hovered dangerously close.

  He yelled and leapt toward his adversary, attempting to divert the Scot, to draw him back into the fray.

  Too late.

  “Stop!” Dugald had her. The soldier on his left grabbed the child and covered his mouth.

  Dugald jerked Yrsa against him with an arm around her waist. Shards of light sparkled as brightly from her wide, shocked eyes as they did from the jewels in the handle of the knife the Scot set to her throat. “My men win this battle, Brabáncon. Soon, even the women and children will be corpses, this valley a tomb. But your woman and this boy might survive. I want your woman. You know this. I will take her—and aye, the boy also—and treat them well, but if you wish them to leave this valley unharmed, there is one condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “Your death at my hand.”

  “Nay!” Yrsa’s shriek echoed off the walls. “Elrik, nay!”

  He searched Dugald’s gaze, judged the truth of the man’s declaration. He knew not why, but in this he was convinced the Scot would keep his word.

  Once he had pondered if enough gold could buy back a man’s bloodstained soul. He concluded it a fool’s folly then. He credited it not now. Yet mayhap more blood—his own—could purchase the life of the innocent child and the woman he loved.

  “Now, Brabáncon, or they die. Here. This moment. Coll, show him what will happen to the boy.”

  Coll’s huge hand lifted to cover Alured’s mouth and nose. The little one struggled to breathe.

  “Done!” Elrik dropped his sword and held out his hands. “Enough, Dugald.”

  At the Scot leader’s nod, Coll took his hand from over the child’s face.

  The second soldier kicked Elrik’s blade out of reach.

  Yrsa cried out and lunged in Dugald’s hold. The Scot barely had time to move the blade before it cut her. He shoved her into the hold of the second soldier and then bent to retrieve his sword.

  “Elrik, nay!” Yrsa kicked and flailed against the soldier restraining her. She tried to bite his arm.

  “Yrsa, my heart! Do not.”

  She went still, breast heaving. Her soft gray eyes darkened with terror—for him.

  He looked straight into those eyes and smiled. “I love you, Yrsa of Ottham.”

  In one smooth, swift motion, Dugald’s blade pierced his chest.

  ’Twas his nightmare all over again except this time, the pressure and pain together was unimaginable, a vicious, deadly sting, a searing agony that scored its way like liquid flame through flesh and bone. He collapsed, to land sprawled on his back, astonished at how much it hurt. ’Twas not his first wound by any count, but no other ever ignited such torment. He needed to draw breath, but the pain seemed to suck the air from his lungs.

  From somewhere close came a cry, the keening feminine wail mingled with sobs and virulent curses. He tried to smile but could not feel the movement of his mouth. The knowledge that Yrsa possessed such a varied store of oaths came as a precious, last gift. He managed to turn his head to seek her face.

  Regret pierced him with pain as bitter as the sword thrust, for her expression, twisted and starkly anguished, appeared that of a wild animal, cornered, terrified and suffering. Tears streamed from stricken gray eyes.

  Moments from death, he looked away. Abruptly, and to his mind unfairly, fear tugged at him. He did not want her to see it, for ’twould only hurt her more. With the last of his strength, he thrust it from him to focus his failing sight on her.

  What was it she said? He struggled to remember. Oh, aye. They were destined to live a long life together in love.

  Mayhap, but not on this side of death.

  He licked lips gone dry as dust and tasted blood. Cold shivered through him. A coughing fit wracked him, blasting pain deeper into body, mind and soul.

  His eyes drifted open, though he could not remember when they closed. Haze clouded his vision.

  Dugald stood over him, straddling his body and veiling Yrsa from his sight. Eyes glittering with triumph, the Scot held his sword lifted high with both hands. The tip of the blade pointed at his chest.

  ’Twas always wise to make certain of an enemy’s death.

  Yrsa had dreamed of a black nothingness in which he might be lost. It took him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Chief Keir? ’Tis that man, yonder,” the old woman said in response to Sir Estienne’s question. She paused in her work of sweeping up broken crockery to point across the cavern to a sturdy individual with a bloody slash across his chin.

  “The one tended to by the healer?”

  “The one who looks pleased with himself.” The woman’s tone implied affectionate disgust. “He has always wished for a facial scar to boast of his fighting skills, though ’tis my opinion any inept fool may achieve such a prize.”

  Estienne barked a laugh. “Certes, you are correct, madam.”

  He picked a cautious path toward the chief through scattered debris and upended furniture, pausing once to aid a young woman right a heavy, overturned bench.

  Keir eyed him as he approached. “Ah, ’tis good. Finally I meet one of the knights who skulked through my woods. Are you Estienne or William?”

  “Keir,” said the woman stitching together the slash.

  “Aye, love?”

  “Cease talking until I finish.”

  Keir mumbled something and closed his mouth.

  “I am Estienne, sir. I will endeavor to make my report thorough enough you will have no immediate need of questions.”

  Keir scowled and slanted a look at him as if suspicious of a jibe, but gestured for him to continue.

  “No Scots still live. Malcolm’s soldiers fought to the death and to a man. Those who fled were not king’s men but mercenaries. Not many of their number escaped. A burial pit for the outsider dead will be dug on the morrow on the other side of the knoll behind the swinefold.

  “As per your orders, Commander Pryderi has set the perimeter guard on the chance any mercenaries should attempt to double back. Howbeit, we believe they will keep running. The
y were hired by Dugald, and with his death, their contract is void. A failure such as this will send them in search of a new contract with a new lord. ’Tis my belief word of what happened here will be long in reaching King Malcolm, if ever it does.

  “Dugald’s Second lived long enough to tell me most of the king’s soldiers and all of the mercenaries believed they were sent here only to wipe out a nest of rebels. They knew naught of the treasure, and none of them ever saw it.”

  “’Tis good,” Keir said. “Thanks to Yrsa’s warning and the watchfulness of my sentries, I was not unprepared for this attack. Still, I will extend the perimeter guard further beyond Tamescombe. I have heard enough of Malcolm to know if Dugald got word to him of success in locating our valley, and we must assume he did, the king may try again. I will not be caught off guard. What of our people?”

  “Many are dead, but ’tis pleased I am to report fewer than first supposed, and only two of them from among the women.” He let his admiration color his tone as he peered at Branwen. “’Twas a very brave thing you did, my lady, leading the women into the fray. Had you not done so, the battle might have ended differently.”

  Branwen tied off the last stitch and wiped away the remaining blood. “’Twas not a difficult decision. The women of our people have fought beside their men since a time so far in the past ’twas but a distant memory of the ancestors who fled to Tamescombe. We prefer not to battle and never, in this or the past two generations, has there been need. Howbeit, we all receive training from childhood in the use of a chosen weapon. We would not have intervened had not the Scots outnumbered our fighting men. ’Tis likely our warriors would still have achieved victory, but I saw no reason not to tip the balance more firmly in our favor.”

  “Aye, and I am proud of you, wife,” Keir said, now he was allowed to speak. He wrapped a burly arm around her hips and squeezed. “You did well. Yrsa said Dugald intended to kill everyone in the valley.” He met Estienne’s gaze. “I would hear your tale, Norman, of how you came in time to help Elrik, for which you have my thanks, by the way.”

  Estienne nodded, accepting the tribute. “Earlier this day, William and I tracked Dugald when he left the valley. We lost him, and returned after nightfall. While we stood atop the east escarpment, the moonlight revealed men climbing down into the vale. I suspected they were up to no good. We made haste to descend. By the time we reached the valley floor, battle was joined. We fought our way into the cavern and found Betek, sword in one hand and a knife in the other, holding off five Scot soldiers.”

  Keir let out a shout of laughter and slapped his knee. “Ha! ’Twould appear the legends of the fighting skills of Brábanter warriors are not mere myth.”

  Estienne grinned. “He needed not our aid. We but evened the odds. Howbeit, I wished to speak with Elrik. Betek said he last saw him fighting nigh the rows of wine on the other side of the cavern. I left William to fight beside the Brabáncon and started toward the casks, but the combat became fierce. It took some time to win my way to Elrik’s last known position. By then, he had gone. My curiosity was roused at sight of a number of rearranged wine casks, for it seemed strange they would be moved. At first I assumed them merely empty and ready for replacement, but something about their positioning appeared careless, disorderly. Still, I was about to return to the fray when I heard a woman’s scream. It sounded oddly distant and seemed to emanate from inside the very cavern wall.”

  Keir chuckled and Branwen smiled. “It led you to discover the hidden entrance to the treasure room.”

  “Aye. I went inside, but the passage was cramped and would make swordplay difficult, so I drew my knife. I could see naught, but another cry drew me on. I arrived at the mouth of the smaller cavern as Dugald prepared to plunge his sword into Elrik’s heart. I had time for naught else but to utilize the knife. After, ’twas but the work of moments to eliminate his two comrades. They paid no attention to their backs.”

  “Oh,” Branwen said. “You killed Dugald with your knife? I had not heard that.”

  “He pitched the blade true into the Scot’s neck,” Keir said. “A fine throw, Sir Estienne. I would not have been pleased to learn Dugald managed to kill my newest warrior.”

  “My thanks, sir, but Elrik may yet die, though I left him still breathing, just now.”

  The Brabáncon’s wound was grievous. In his experience, ’twould already have killed a lesser warrior.

  Keir looked at his wife. “Branwen, what say you?”

  She handed him a small flask. “Take two swallows of this.” He lifted a hand as if to wave it away, but she fussed. “Nay, ’twill not make you sleepy or talk foolish, ’twill only ease the pain and aid in the healing. Drink.” She waited until he complied. “As for Elrik, I go to check on him, but I have done all I can. The wound is severe, but he is strong and has much to live for. Sometimes, that can be enough.”

  “Then we will hope to that end,” Keir said, making a face at the taste of the medicine.

  Branwen picked up her basket, kissed his undamaged cheek and with a nod to Estienne, left them.

  Keir stood. “Irksome female. As if a man cannot bear the pain of so trifling a scratch without her potions and ointments.” He openly ogled her swaying hips and his tone softened. “She is a good woman, Sir Estienne, of whom any man would be proud.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “I go to find Pryderi and learn how fares the restoration of normality to the valley. Walk with me.”

  “’Twould be my honor, sir.”

  Yrsa stared out the cottage window. Birds frolicked with happy chorus in the trees. Sunshine spotlighted the play of dragonflies and encouraged the cottage cat to curl up for a nap in its warmth. The river sang as the waters spilled past on their course out of the valley.

  None of it truly registered, for guilt and regret devastated her soul. If only she had not yielded to the impulse, however urgent, to follow those men into the secret corridor. Her heart’s intent pure, she had meant only to help, to even the odds of three swords against one. Instead, she accomplished naught but to give Dugald the means to thrust his blade, unopposed, into the chest of the man she loved.

  If Elrik died—and Branwen offered but cautious hope of his survival—that regret would haunt her forever.

  Why were her dreams silent? Like her mother before her, she received no warning in time to save her beloved.

  As she had done so oft since that night, she sought some measure of hope in the first dream from before Elrik’s company came to Ottham. But her faith in that dream faltered. Only the vision of being lost in darkness made sense now. She had believed that darkness finished the night of her wedding. How could she have known ’twould reach beyond her simple fears to rip from her the man who was her very heart?

  She wanted to weep, but tears would not come.

  Branwen approached from the direction of the cavern. A quiet knock prefaced her entrance. The healer’s gaze sought her.

  She shook her head. No change.

  Branwen’s lips tightened. She moved to the bed and bent over him, then said something Yrsa could not hear to Betek, who kept a nigh sleepless vigil by Elrik’s bedside.

  Betek, dear and wonderful friend. A bulwark he was these past five days since Dugald struck her husband down. Yet he could not hide that his staunch faith in his friend’s recovery might yet founder. He lifted Elrik’s head while Branwen tried to coax him to swallow some dark draught.

  Ah, the helplessness. She knew naught of herbs and potions, of how to physick illness or wounds. She could but pray and will her husband to live while she shared with Betek the task of sponging his hot skin with cool water. The impotence enraged her, the same as the night módir died. She embraced the anger, for it offered an illusion of strength.

  Elrik coughed.

  She whirled, the sound rasping her soul.

  Dugald’s blade had missed Elrik’s heart, but Branwen believed it sliced his breathing sac. With every violent spasm, he risked tearing the sac further.

/>   She fisted her hands against her stomach and held her breath until the fit passed. If he coughed up more blood—

  He relaxed. No red spittle appeared on his lips.

  Betek’s jaw unclenched.

  Branwen exhaled on a drawn out sigh. “I have explained the wound is not so deep as first believed,” she said. “I begin to think the blade only nicked his breathing sac. There has been no bloody flux since that first night. Also, he breathes easier.” She glanced at Yrsa. “I find naught of infection in the wound. I cannot yet be certain, but I believe it means the wound heals.”

  “What of the fever?”

  “He is not so hot as he was, nor does he thrash about. The incoherent speech has ceased.” She stood straight, her look switching from Yrsa to Betek. “He does better than I expected. Before he was struck, he was healthy and strong. For these reasons, we should not yield hope, but I will not lie. Blood loss and fever have weakened him. He may yet succumb.” She picked up her basket. “I run low on a certain herb I need. Mabina and I will search for more. Grania will come until I return.”

  She left.

  Yrsa sat beside the bed and covered Elrik’s hand with her own.

  She looked up to find Betek’s somber gaze upon her. “He loves you, Yrsa, and believes in your dream. Now we must believe in him, that he is strong enough to fight his way back to us.”

  She nodded and scrubbed at eyes hot with unshed tears.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tamescombe Valley – Cumbra-land

  Early October – The Month of Hunting With Falcons