by Tamara Leigh
Counting it a boon that the door was unlocked, he stepped inside the chamber.
The coals in the brazier cast a weak glow, spreading light as far as the bed. A bed that did not sleep Lady Beatrix.
He turned his hand around his dagger hilt and peered into the darkened corners that refused to betray what lurked there.
One did not fuel the brazier of an unoccupied room, and yet, despite the door’s creak, its betrayal had not provided adequate time for anyone within to seek cover. And surely only Lady Beatrix expected him?
Perchance D’Arci had taken her from Soaring, even now rode to Lavonne? He frowned over that and remembered the night she had been mistaken for a servant. What had happened between her and D’Arci had presented as peculiar, and from D’Arci’s reaction and the castle folk’s, it was obvious Beatrix’s presence in the hall had been unfamiliar until that eve.
He had thought, perhaps, she had escaped her prison, but it made no sense she would come to the hall that brimmed with folk, nor that the man whose brother she was said to have murdered would invite her to join him at table. Of course, these past days of watching one watch the other had presented the unforeseen and unwelcome possibility that something had happened between D’Arci and Lady Beatrix. And he had told his lord as much in a missive dispatched on the day past. So had something happened? Beatrix was a beautiful woman, and she surely stirred him—
“I thank you that you would r-risk so much to aid me,” her voice came out of the dark, “but I shall not go with you, Sir Durand.” In the corner beyond the bed, she rose from where she had sat watching him. Waiting for him.
“Beatrix,” he murmured, only after speaking her name realizing he did so without title, something he had no right to do. Especially now.
“Pray, deliver…tidings of my family, then leave ere you are discovered.”
He eased his hand from the dagger. “The first I can do. The last, I cannot.”
She stepped into the brazier’s glow. “My sister?” She held her hands at the waist of a homespun garment that had replaced the fine gown she wore belowstairs.
The mere thought of Gaenor unsettled Durand as it had done every day since he had escorted her to Wulfen. Turning memories of her away, he looked to the sister for whom he felt so much and whom he had believed lost to him that night in the wood when Gaenor had wept on his shoulder.
As when Durand had first seen Beatrix again in D’Arci’s hall, he was struck by how lovely she was. And yet how different she seemed from the young woman with whom he had fled Stern Castle. And it was not merely her faltering speech. There was a hard light in her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was forceful and resonated with purpose. Then there was her stiff bearing that contrasted with the carefree figure he had known.
As often happened with those who survived great adversity, she had aged such that the memory held of her all these weeks found little nourishment in the woman whose face did not light and who did not rush to accept his deliverance.
“My sister?” she asked again.
“I delivered her safely to your brother, Sir Everard, at Wulfen.”
Relief lowered Beatrix’s shoulders. “And where is she now?”
“She is yet at Wulfen, my lady.”
Beatrix frowned. “As women are not allowed within W-Wulfen’s walls, I expected my brother would seek to secure her elsewhere.”
It was a reasonable expectation since the only woman to ever fully penetrate Wulfen Castle was Annyn Bretanne, now Baron Wulfrith’s wife, when she had sought revenge against his family in the disguise of a squire.
“Your family has determined it is the surest place to prevent King Henry from laying hold of Lady Gaenor, not only due to its fortifications but because few at Wulfen are aware of her presence.”
After a long moment, Beatrix nodded. “Tell me of my eldest brother.”
“Baron Wulfrith fares better now that ’tis known you live.”
“I am surprised he did not come for me himself.”
“He wished to, as did your other brothers. Unfortunately, they have trained far too many boys into knights to go unrecognized.”
“I had not c-considered that. What of my mother and sister-in-law?”
“They are well, my lady. The news you had survived the fall lifted the great pall beneath which all have been laboring. Now there is only the trial to deal with, and for that I am here.”
She momentarily lowered her lids. “How does Squire Percival fare?”
He was not surprised that she concerned herself over the young man who had stood watch over the stairs. “He shall be sore when he awakens. That is all.”
“I thank you, Sir Durand. And now I ask you to return to Stern Castle and tell my brother that I go to…trial willingly that I might defend my innocence.”
Willingly? After all she had endured to escape Baron Lavonne? Durand stared at the woman before him. Mayhap the head injury had done more damage than thought. “I fear I cannot do as you ask, Lady Beatrix,” he consciously returned her title to her. “I have a promise to keep, and it requires that you come with me.”
She shook her head. “Go.”
“Lady Beatrix—”
“I am staying!”
God’s tooth! In relieving Squire Percival and the knight of consciousness, he had thought the greatest obstacles overcome, but now this small woman loomed just as large. Unfortunately, as much as he preferred to reason with her, there was not the time to do so.
He strode around the bed.
She stepped back. “Upon my word, I shall scream, Sir Durand!”
“And reveal me? Nay, you will not.” At least, the Beatrix he had known would not. Hoping some of her remained, he reached for her.
She lunged, lit upon the mattress, and clambered toward the other side.
Landing his knees on the bed, he caught a handful of her homespun gown.
She shrieked, flailed as he dragged her back from the edge, and nearly unmanned him.
Durand tossed her onto her back and clamped a hand over her mouth. Praying her shriek had not made it around too many turns of the winding stairs, he pushed his gaze to hers.
Her eyes were wild, and he knew that were his legs not pinning hers, she would try again for his manhood.
“Hear me, Lady—”
He felt the scrape of her teeth. Fortunately, his palm was too calloused for her to catch hold of.
“Enough!” Struggling to control his frustration, he said, “Listen to me. I am taking you from here—”
The sound of footsteps made him snap his head around. A moment later, a sword hewed the doorway, followed by Michael D’Arci.
Durand cursed. Had he not been distracted by Beatrix’s struggle, he would sooner have heard D’Arci’s advance and had his sword to hand.
Even as Durand rolled to the side and reached for his hilt, he knew it was too late.
Michael paused only long enough to assess the situation, but it was enough to boil his blood and render his sword arm a taste for killing. He lunged toward the one who had pinned Beatrix to the bed and would have severed the knave’s head if not that Beatrix lurched after him.
“Nay!” She threw herself on the knight.
Staying his blade, Michael groped for an explanation of her shielding of the man. And nearly lost the advantage when Sir Piers reached for his dagger.
Michael grabbed Beatrix’s arm, thrust her aside, and swept his blade to the knight’s neck.
The man’s hand paused above his dagger. Then, with grudging surrender, he splayed his fingers. “Come, Lord D’Arci, let us take to arms and decide this now.”
“’Tis decided. You die.”
Beatrix reached to Michael. “He is not—”
“Stay back!” He knocked her hand aside.
The momentary distraction was all Sir Piers needed. He rolled and gained his feet—and sword—on the opposite side of the bed.
If not for Michael’s laming, he could have been upon the knight before the sword
hissed from its scabbard.
“Now we decide,” Sir Piers said and started around the bed.
Remembering the miscreant pinning Beatrix to the bed, eager to begin the letting, Michael stepped forward. “Come, then.”
Beatrix leapt off the mattress. “Hear me! ’Tis Sir Durand—”
The brazier’s glow streaked the blade of Sir Piers—now Sir Durand—and Michael answered by deflecting the blow.
Steel upon steel resounded around the room, the force of the meeting causing both men to stagger. They pushed off each others’ sword, circled, and like starving dogs warring over a bone, met at the center of the room.
Michael turned his wrist and thrust his blade high, forcing his opponent’s blade to follow. The man disengaged and fell back, then came again.
Grunting at the weight he was forced to give his healing leg, Michael fended off the man’s attack. Though there was not enough light in the dim room to trace a sword’s path, he met each thrust and turned aside blow after blow as the walls of the room rang with battle.
Above the din, he heard Beatrix’s protests, though the roar in his ears was too loud to know what she said. Once…twice…he glimpsed her fearful face as he sought to give his full attention to the skilled knight who meant to take what Michael would not give.
Sir Durand—did he know the name?—swept his sword low to deflect Michael’s attempt to cut his feet out from under him, then advanced and swung upward.
Michael turned hard on his injured leg and knocked aside the knight’s blade. As intended, the move opened a path to Sir Durand’s sword arm.
“Cease!” Beatrix cried and lunged between them.
Michael jerked, slowing his swing, but it was not enough to stop it. The tip of his sword caught the sleeve of her gown and found the flesh beneath.
“Nay!” he shouted. But it was so, as evidenced by the blood that rimmed his blade.
Beatrix stumbled back against Sir Durand.
“My lady!” The knight clasped her shoulder.
She looked to the crimson that seeped through her sleeve, clapped a hand over it, and swung her stricken gaze to Michael.
He stepped toward her. “Beatrix, I—”
“Whoreson!” Sir Durand yelled. Lips curling, eyes seeking to impale, he swept his sword to the ready. “Get behind me, my lady,” he said and thrust Beatrix to the side.
Michael ground his teeth. If it took the knight’s death to gain Beatrix, so be it. However, before their swords could cleave the air, Beatrix closed her blood-smeared hand around the hilt of Sir Durand’s dagger.
“No more!” She swept the weapon from its scabbard and waved it between the two men. “I shall return to Stern Castle with neither of you.”
Michael stilled. Surely this knight did not also intend to deliver her to Stern?
Sir Durand looked from Beatrix to Michael and, a moment later, his dark fury was displaced by disbelief.
It was then the name came to Michael—Sir Durand, the knight who was said to have escaped with Beatrix’s sister.
The irony that Michael had fought a man whose purpose he shared—to deliver Beatrix to her brother—would have made him laugh if not that Beatrix bled. And from the glint in Sir Durand’s eyes, he also saw the irony.
But if the Wulfrith knight had come to take her to Stern Castle, why had he spread himself upon Beatrix? And why had she sought to protect him?
There, in her seething gaze, was the answer. Sir Durand had done what Michael would have had to do to take her from here. He had tried to force her.
“I shall not go,” she said, pressing her injured arm tight to her side. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear,” Michael said and beckoned for her to relinquish the dagger.
She stepped back. “I shall only leave…Soaring in the company of the Sheriff.”
Sir Durand reached out his own hand. “Give me the dagger, my lady.”
For some reason, Michael was relieved when she also refused him.
“I shall give over to the sheriff.” She retreated further. “I trust neither of you.”
“You bleed,” Michael said. “Allow me—”
“Do not touch me!” She swept the dagger forward. “I have bled before and survived. I shall do so again. And have my trial.”
“Not if you bleed out your life!”
“And you care when such an end would spare your family’s name? That is what you want, is it not?”
With a glance at Sir Durand who continued to heft his sword, Michael took another step forward.
Beatrix retreated to the foot of the bed.
“You know ‘tis not what I want,” Michael said. “I would aid you, and that I cannot do beneath threat of your dagger.”
“You fear I shall put it to you as I did your brother?”
Holding to his awareness of Sir Durand lest it be determined the lord of Soaring remained a threat to Beatrix, Michael continued forward. “You did not put the dagger to Simon,” he finally voiced what he knew to be true. “It was not you who killed him.”
Her gaze wavered. “You seek to deceive me.”
Still Sir Durand held. Watched.
Michael halted before her. “Though ‘tis true I would force you from here ere dawn, it is as true that I no longer believe you murdered Simon.”
Her eyes delved his, but she would not find a lie in them. Revealing himself beyond what he had revealed to any woman since the betrayal that had lost him all, he dragged from his depths words he had thought never to speak. “You are not Edithe.”
That which struck Beatrix was not unlike the lightning on a night that seemed so long ago, a night that she and Michael had come together between their hoods and he had given his breath to her. When something—this Edithe?—had spilled accusations from the same mouth that had nearly kissed her.
Not the same as Edithe. Did she dare believe he did not speak such for his own gain?
Arm throbbing, she lowered the dagger to her waist. “Even so, and ‘tis not to say I believe you, I will not flee.”
Sir Durand stirred, causing Michael’s hand to convulse on his sword hilt.
“And if you never again see your family?” the knight demanded. “If for the remainder of her life, Lady Gaenor bears the blame for your death?”
Beatrix gasped. “It is not for her to bear!”
“But she shall—for the sacrifice you made for her. You know it.”
She nearly argued, but he was right. Still, it was better for one to be burdened by undeserved blame than for Beatrix’s entire family to suffer King Henry’s displeasure. “I am wanted for m-murder. If I do not appear at trial, my family will suffer. I will not take that risk.” She held Sir Durand’s glower a moment before returning to Michael. “I must do this.”
His jaw convulsed. “I know.”
Was he merely placating her in hopes of disarming her?
“The bleeding must be stopped,” he enjoined.
Though her sleeve was flushed red, the pain had abated. Shock? “First, I would have your word.”
“You would believe it?”
Could she trust that he would not force her from Soaring? She glanced at Sir Durand whose mouth drew a flat line that told he also knew what she asked. She looked back at Michael. “I have no choice but to believe it.”
Her words were a jab to his integrity, but he inclined his head. “I give my word.”
“I do not give mine!” Sir Durand stepped toward them.
“She does not need it,” Michael shot back. He lifted his sword from where he had settled its tip to the floor.
For a moment, Beatrix thought jealousy stirred the air, but that was ridiculous. Fearing the two might meet at swords again, she said, “Pray, Sir Durand, do not delay in…giving me your word. I bleed.”
His eyes were riled, and a rumble sounded from him, but he grudgingly nodded.
She looked to Michael. “Tend me, if you will.”
Once more, he held out his hand.
She gripped
the dagger tighter. “I shall keep it.”
“Why do you ask for my word if you do not intend to honor it?”
“That I might hear it.” She almost smiled. “But my word I give that if you do not…deceive me, I will not use the dagger on you.”
“Generous,” Michael grumbled. “Sit down.”
As she lowered to the mattress, the sound of boots on the stairs caused Michael and Sir Durand to raise their swords.
When the trespasser appeared in the doorway, sword at the ready, the sight of Squire Percival breathed relief around the room. However, the moment the young man picked out Sir Durand, he came across the room.
“Hold!” Michael shouted.
The squire’s boots skittered over the floor. Shoulders heaving, he arced his sword before Sir Durand. “My lord, ’twas this miscreant who rendered the blow that laid me down.”
“I know who bested you.” Michael glanced at Sir Durand whose stance told that if the squire overstepped his sword skill, he would suffer. Michael returned his sword to its scabbard. “A misunderstanding only, Squire.”
“Misunderstanding?” Percival exclaimed, then again when he caught sight of Beatrix’s crimson sleeve.
“Do not question me, Squire. Fetch a torch.”
Percival thrust his sword into its scabbard, strode from the room, and quickly returned to set a flickering torch in a wall sconce.
“Now escort Sir Piers to my solar,” Michael directed, “and bring my physician’s bag.”
“Your solar?” Sir Durand asked with suspicious brow.
“Await me there. We must needs talk.”
Sir Durand looked to Beatrix. Then, keeping his sword to hand, he followed Squire Percival out.
“When you have done that, Squire Percival,” Michael called, “see if you can rouse Sir Justin who was also visited by Sir Durand this eve. He is in the hall.”
Beatrix frowned. However, when Sir Durand glanced over his shoulder, the glint in his eyes was explanation enough. He had been busy belowstairs.
Michael turned back to Beatrix. “May I?”
She lowered the dagger. As he bent over her and folded back her sleeve, she stared at his dark head and was disturbed by a longing to push her fingers through his hair.
