The Yielding (Age of Faith)

by Tamara Leigh

  “My lady?”

  She nodded. “Let us be away from here—as far as you can take me.”

  She would rather die than surrender it. Was that what had happened? Had she died?

  She flexed her fingers and felt the gems through the leather of her glove. The dagger was still to hand, so she must yet live. She tried to draw a deep breath, but it felt as if a great weight pressed upon her. Taking a shallow sip of cool air, she eased her lids open and winced at the pain that raked fingernails across the inside of her skull.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, but there was no escape from the ache that spread and intensified until it felt as if it knew and hated every ounce of her being.

  What happened? Where am I? Why so much pain?

  Darkness once more beckoning, she slid toward it. However, a vague memory dragged across her thoughts and, though she longed to let it pass, she pulled it back and saw a man’s leering face and eyes that were at once pale and dark. Then there was the dagger she yet gripped. He had tried to wrest it from her.

  Why? And who was he?

  She forced her lids up and blinked until the blur came into focus. To her left, rising steeply overhead, a wall of rock was interspersed with dry winter grass.

  Did I fall? This the reason my head aches and legs will not move?

  She eased her head up. Grinding her teeth against the pain caused by the movement, she peered down her body.

  Blood soaked her mantle where a man lay across her.

  She cried out and wrenched sideways, and the man rolled off her. Closing her throat against sobs that threatened to shake her apart, she dropped to her back again and peered across her shoulder at the one who had come to rest on his side facing her. His chest bled crimson, meaning the blood upon her must belong to him. But why? Because of the dagger she would rather die than release? She raised her hand and whimpered at the sight of blood coloring the blade. Had she—?

  Nay, she would not have.

  She dropped her hand back to her side. It had to have been an accident. Had it happened before they had fallen down into this place? After? As she searched for an explanation, time crawled over and around her, leaving behind a trail so gray and damp and coldly silent that she longed to scream.

  She struggled to sitting, pressed a hand to the left side of her head, and touched a tender swelling. When she drew her hand away, blood smeared her gloved fingers. Her blood. She wiped it on her skirts and once more took in the blood that covered her mantle. His blood.

  Breathing hard, she clawed at the ties of her mantle, released them, and threw the garment off. But still there was blood, the crimson having soaked through to her cream linen gown.

  As sobs broke from her, she dragged her legs beneath her—legs capable of movement now that she was free of the dead man’s weight. Continuing to hold to the dagger, she crawled toward the ravine wall. Once there, she pressed her aching back to it, drew her legs up, and buried her face against her knees.

  How long she remained thus, wafting in and out of consciousness, she did not know, but the sun still warmed the winter sky when voices sounded overhead.

  Friend or foe? And how was she to know the difference when she could not recall how she had come to be here?

  She startled when the door to a memory swung open—two knights, faces familiar though she could put no name to them. And her sister. “Gaenor,” she whispered. “Aye, that is her name.”

  Dear God, what is wrong with me?

  As the voices drew near, she pressed herself tighter against the wall and convulsively gripped the dagger she must not release lest death find her defenseless.

  Small rocks and clumps of dirt rained down and, though she knew someone scaled the ravine wall, she did not move.

  As consciousness once more dimmed, she heard a gruff voice shout, “He is dead, Sir Kearse, but the lady lives.”

  Only as long as I do not let go of the dagger.

  A darkness darker than night swelled over her and drew her back to its breast, but still she held to the hilt.

  “Will she live?”

  Michael D’Arci, physician to Aldous Lavonne who had years earlier relinquished his title to his sons, first Geoffrey, then Christian, looked over his shoulder. “Do you wish her to live, my lord?”

  Towering before the door, Christian seemed to struggle—as did Michael, who now shared a brother’s death in common with his embittered lord. He ground his teeth at the memory of Simon D’Arci laid out in the hall below, his gut torn open by the dagger the baron’s men had pried from the Wulfrith woman’s hand when they had found her over Simon’s body. And that was another thing the D’Arcis and Lavonnes had in common. The Wulfriths were responsible for both deaths. Of course, Simon’s might have been prevented had Sir Hector not left him alone with Lady Beatrix.

  Remembering the silent knight who had said little during Christian Lavonne’s questioning, Michael clenched his hands. Despite an unwillingness to talk, there had been regret in Sir Hector’s eyes which, strangely, receded each time he had looked at where Simon lay.

  Michael returned his attention to the unconscious lady he would have refused to tend had his lord not ordered it—she of flaxen hair, angelic face, and petite form that none would believe capable of murder. But that was Simon’s blood on her bodice. Simon’s blood on the Wulfrith dagger that the baron had shown him. How the lady and Simon had ended up in the ravine, none knew, nor did Michael care. What mattered was that Beatrix Wulfrith had killed his brother.

  Baron Lavonne heaved a sigh. “I would have her live.”

  Regardless if it meant Michael would burn in hell, it was not the choice he would have made. But though he would walk away and leave her to die, as would likely be her lot if he left her untended, he would do his lord’s bidding.

  He met the baron’s gaze. “She should not have survived a fall such as your men described.” Surely they had exaggerated, for only a miracle would have preserved her life. “Hence, though I vow I will tend her as best I can, I make no guarantee that she will live.”

  Christian Lavonne turned to depart but paused at the door. “As I would not have the Wulfriths descend upon Castle Broehne, none are to know she lives until I determine her fate.”

  “What of the king’s men?”

  The baron smiled—a rarity. “’Twas my men who found her and your brother, and well they know I would not wish any interference in this matter.”

  Then he would not inform King Henry that the lady had been delivered to Castle Broehne—an omission that could prove detrimental when the truth was learned as it must surely be.

  “Despair not,” the baron said as he opened the door. “If the lady lives, justice will be yours.”

  They were not idle words. Christian Lavonne was the lord his brother had never aspired to be, having earned the respect of his people who knew exactly what was expected of them and who had prospered in the absence of the rapacious Geoffrey Lavonne.

  Michael inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Christian Lavonne ducked to avoid the lintel and stepped into the corridor.

  As the door closed, Michael considered Beatrix of the Wulfriths. The sight of her bloodied bodice gave him pause and made his stomach roil. Drawing a deep breath, he told himself she was undeserving of modesty and removed her belt. Once more, he paused, this time over the psalter on her belt. It was a sign of godliness that a lady carried such evidence of her faith, but for this woman it was mere pretense. Like so many, Michael included, God was revered only in the presence of others—a show of faith and little else. To truly live a Christian life took too much effort, sacrifice, and repentance of those things most pleasurable, such as the needs of the flesh, to which he was particularly susceptible. Though not to the extent some believed.

  He tossed the belt aside and pulled at the gown’s side laces. Upon removal of the garment, he saw that neither had the chemise beneath been spared Simon’s blood.

  When his brother’s murderer finally lay bare
beneath a sheet, he turned her onto her side, pulled his physician’s bag near, and began cutting away the hair that would allow him to stitch up the wound above her ear. Though he knew her injury had to be a result of the fall, he did not allow himself to delve deeper. Regardless of what had happened to her, there was nothing to excuse her of Simon’s death. Simon who had only been doing his king and overlord’s bidding. Simon who would not know another sunrise or sunset. Simon whose murderer would be brought to justice. One way or another.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The light was distant, a pinprick in the darkness, but she was certain that if she felt her way forward, she could reach it.

  Hands before her, she trudged onward. Though the light grew larger, it remained elusive. Why it was so important that she reach it, she did not understand. She simply knew she must not take the easier path back into darkness even though it offered relief from her pain.

  When she finally stepped into the light, the brilliance made her throw up a hand to shield her eyes. It was then she realized she had lost the dagger.

  Aware of a voice somewhere beyond her, she tried to peer between her fingers. As the ceiling overhead wavered, she heard a door open and close, then all fell silent.

  Beatrix lowered her hand and slid her narrowed gaze to the wall opposite. The door was there, and the longer she stared at it, the more it came into focus until she could pick out the grains of the planks from which it was fashioned.

  No sooner had she begun to breathe easier than the door swung inward and a man appeared, one of such great height he had to dip his head to enter—taller even than the Wulfrith males and, thereby, Gaenor.

  For a moment, Beatrix forgot about the man in the doorway. Where was Gaenor? Why this fear that all was not well? What was this place? What was she doing abed with sunlight filtering through oilcloth-covered windows? And who was this man who came uninvited into her chamber? She returned her gaze to him and saw he had closed the door.

  “Lady Beatrix.” His voice was cold enough to chill the warm air wafting from the brazier. “You are returned to us.”

  Us? As she pulled her hands up the sheet, she caught her breath at the realization she was bare beneath.

  The big man halted alongside the bed. “We had begun to abandon hope you would awaken.” From his tone, it seemed it would not have troubled him much. As she had never known anyone to hate her, she could not be certain that was what he exuded, but what else might it be?

  She parted her lips to speak, but her mouth was so dry it was impossible to form words. He must have seen her struggle, for he stepped away and returned with a goblet.

  Holding the sheet to her chest, Beatrix pushed onto her elbows and reached with the other hand to accept the vessel. Their fingers brushed as he passed it, and a glance at his face told he was repulsed by the contact.

  Lord, what have I done to warrant such loathing?

  The sweet wine that coursed over her tongue and down her parched throat nearly made her choke. Fearing it would earn her further scorn, she sipped more slowly. When she had drained the goblet, the man took it from her.

  “Do you know where you are, Lady Beatrix?” He set the vessel on the table beside the bed.

  She collapsed back on the pillow and shook her head.

  “Castle Broehne.”

  The name sounded familiar.

  “I am Christian Lavonne, baron of Abingdale.” He watched for a reaction.

  And she gave it to him, though she could not say exactly what caused her to startle. She knew the name and that it boded ill, but that was all.

  “What happened?” she croaked, surprised at the effort required to form so few words.

  “You do not recall?”

  Why did she not? Why were the doors of her mind closed?

  “The physician told that your mind might not be right after the head injury you sustained.”

  This the reason for the throb radiating from the left side of her skull? She slid a hand through her hair and touched the threads that closed her broken flesh.

  He narrowed his lids. “But methinks it more likely pretense you work. Eh, my lady?”

  “Pre…tense? Why would I…? Lord, what binds my tongue? I am capable of better than this!

  “Why?” the baron repeated. “Murder, mayhap?”

  “I do not understand.”

  His nostrils flared. “I speak of the murder of Sir Simon D’Arci.”

  Another name she knew, but—

  “Ah, you remember now.”

  Pale eyes, yet dark. A cruel smile.

  “Be you assured, my lady, though you are a Wulfrith, you will go to trial for murder.”

  But she had killed no one. “You are…wrong. I—”

  He moved so suddenly she jerked. Two strides carried him to the end of the bed where he tossed back the lid of a clothes chest and withdrew a mantle and gown. When he turned the latter to reveal blood across the bodice, she remembered a ravine, a man across her chest, crimson soaked through her clothing, blood on the blade.

  “The…Wulfrith dagger.” She looked to her frightfully empty hand. Though she did not remember her fingers being turned from around the hilt, someone had taken it. And now she would die.

  “The Wulfrith dagger,” the baron scorned. “A fine piece of proof that will assure retribution is finally dealt a Wulfrith. That is, unless you can offer a better explanation for how it came to be planted in Sir Simon’s chest.”

  Beatrix felt as if she were drowning, surfacing only often enough to suffer a slow, painful death. With a sigh that sounded nearer a sob, she turned her face away and stared at the brazier across the chamber.

  After a long silence, the baron said, “Michael D’Arci will be both surprised and displeased to learn you have finally awakened. Though he tended you, I do not doubt he hoped his physician’s skill would fail him.”

  Then he believed Simon D’Arci’s relation had coaxed her out of darkness? It was so preposterous she could have laughed, for it was God who had returned her to the light, though for what purpose she could not fathom, especially now that her mind was so far removed from her tongue.

  Keeping her head turned away, she asked, “How long have I been…” The word she sought mocked from afar.

  “Unconscious?”

  Threatened by tears of frustration, she nodded.

  “Seven days, my lady.”

  A sennight. It was hardly surprising that D’Arci had not expected her to live. Seven days without sustenance—a slow wasting away.

  She heard the baron move around the bed but kept her gaze on the brazier.

  “I shall send word to D’Arci that you have awakened.”

  Then he was no longer here. Of course, he had expected her to die.

  “I am sure he will wish to see for himself that the woman who murdered his brother is returned to health.”

  Though Beatrix longed to argue her innocence, she not only lacked the words but also memory of the events that had caused the man to be impaled upon the Wulfrith dagger.

  The baron lingered as if he expected a response, but she closed her eyes in the hope he would leave her alone to muddle through her confused mind. Shortly, the door closed. But for all her straining, her memories remained ghostly images without substance. Nothing to save her from judgment by the enemy she had somehow gained.

  “Lord,” she whispered, and the mere utterance of her savior’s name was as a balm. There was something—someone—who could save her. Someone who had not deserted her as her memories had done.

  She closed her eyes. “I place my life in your hands, Lord Jesus. Your will be done.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She had killed a man. Or so it was said.

  During the ten days since her awakening, Beatrix had tried every locked door within her memory. Some creaked open wide enough to allow her to peer inside such that she now remembered her flight from Stern Castle with Gaenor, Sir Ewen’s death, and Sir Simon’s face when he sought to violate her. Though she remem
bered little beyond the hands he had laid to her, she was fairly certain he had not stolen her virtue. But there was that gap between her flight from Sir Ewen’s side to the fall.

  Suddenly light of head, she lowered to the chest at the foot of the bed and breathed deep until the feeling passed. Then, as she had done time and again, she struggled to fill the gap preceding her return to consciousness in the ravine when she had rolled the knight off her. But once again, the memory she needed to defend against the charge of murder was denied her. However, that was not all she needed. She required words to tell what had happened, words that too often teased her tongue, the absence of which made her seem a simpleton.

  Four days past, when she had first recalled Sir Simon’s attempt to ravish her, she had begged an audience with Baron Lavonne. He made her wait two days and, when he finally appeared, it had been for naught. Like a moth straining to light, she had tried to voice the terrible memory, but the head injury had bound her tongue and incurred the baron’s impatience. That second visit to her chamber was his last.

  Thus, she would soon be brought before the sheriff, but even if she could tell what had happened, there seemed no outcome other than death—unless her family delivered her. Each day she set herself before the window to watch for them, certain they would come, but they did not. Why? The castle was not barricaded, the folk allowed to move freely within and without the walls. Surely she would not stand alone before the sheriff and her accusers?

  She touched a finger to her lips in anticipation of what she would say, but even when she thought the words through before speaking, her tongue and lips faltered as if she were empty of mind. She was not. Of course, one would not know it to be near when she opened her mouth.