The Yielding (Age of Faith)

by Tamara Leigh

  “I vow you shall not,” he said softly.

  She looked to the square of linen into which she had folded the herbs picked from his garden—courage in the palm of her hand. Courage he did not believe she needed. He was right, especially now that she had his love. She lifted her chin. “I shall hold you to your word.”

  With a slight smile, he slid his gaze down her mantle—the same one she had taken from him at Broehne.

  She bit her lip and fingered the bit of red visible past the dark lining she had once more turned to the outside.

  “Nor do you need that,” he said. “I shall have Squire Percival fetch a mantle better fit for a lady.”

  “I do not wish another.”

  “It looks like it belongs to a beggar, Beatrix.”

  How it looked did not matter. What mattered was that it yet carried his scent, impossible though it seemed. “Still I shall wear it.”

  After a long moment, he nodded and strode into the tower room, the ring of metal drawing her gaze to the chain mail he wore. Though it was not uncommon to don armor for a journey, she was bothered that he had done so. When he had come to Broehne and then followed her to the abbey he had not.

  He halted before her.

  Beatrix searched his smooth face above hers and once more ached over the absence of beard that had this morning teased her cheek. Did he not realize how much he resembled his brother, dark of hair though he was?

  Forcing herself to see Michael beyond Simon, she said, “You shaved.”

  “The better to present at trial when I stand at your side.”

  At her side… She folded the herbs into the cloth and handed them to him.

  He ignored the packet. “It disturbs you, Beatrix?”

  “Even if you and…Simon shared only a father, you have much the look of one another.”

  He dragged a hand across his jaw. “I did not consider that, but had I”—he lowered his arm—“still I would not wish to hide behind a beard.”

  As much as she might want it, she could not ask it of him. She looked to the folded linen with its promise of courage. “It is something of a shock, ‘tis all. I had forgotten how much—”

  He lifted her chin and set his face so near hers she had only to lean in to meet his mouth. “I am Michael, and I vow never again will you know sorrow at the hands of a D’Arci.”

  Strange that his resemblance to Simon diminished the nearer he drew. Because of what was in his eyes that could never have shone from his brother’s?

  When he bent his head, Beatrix closed her eyes.

  “Look at me,” he said low.

  She did.

  “See ’tis me who kisses you…” He caressed his mouth across hers, then pulled her nearer. “…who holds you…” He lifted her hand from her side and pressed it to his mailed chest. “…who loves you.”

  Michael. How could she mistake him for any other?

  “Who do you see, Beatrix?”

  “Only you.”

  “As I see only you,” he said, and she realized he referred to the shadow thrown by Edithe that no longer fell upon her.

  He stepped back and opened the purse on his belt. “Now I have something to show you—something I no longer need.” He drew forth a lock of flaxen hair.

  Beatrix blinked. “That is mine?”

  “In tending your wound at Broehne, I had to cut away some of your hair. Though I kept a lock as a reminder of the one who had taken my brother’s life, the more I came to know you the less I remembered my reason for carrying it. It simply reminded me of Beatrix Wulfrith, a woman I could never hope to have.”

  She smiled. “In that you were wrong.”

  “For which I thank God.”

  She touched the lock of hair. “I also thank God that you no longer need this.”

  “Aye. For what do I require a part of you when I have the whole and ever shall?”

  Daring to believe it, she laid a hand on his chest to feel the beat of his heart. However, it was not detectable through the chain mail. “I have not seen you in armor before.”

  Michael stiffened. “It is a long ride to Broehne.”

  “No longer than when last you rode there.” When, wearing his mantle, she had brushed past him on the drawbridge.

  “A mistake.”

  More than a mistake, but she knew he would tell no more. She laid her head to his chest. “If only we could have had one more day.”

  “There shall be many more.”

  He could not know that. Still, she was heartened to hear him say it.

  He released her. “You are ready?”

  “Nearly so.” She stepped to her bed, lifted the pillow, and returned the herbs to the place she had earlier secreted them. “Now I would pray. Will you pray with me?”

  Discomfort grooved Michael’s face, and she was certain he would refuse, but he crossed to her side. They knelt and, to her surprise, it was Michael who yielded up the words. Though they were stilted and broken as of an uncertain child at his father’s knee, he asked for guidance and protection during the journey and, lastly, Beatrix’s deliverance at trial.

  “Amen.” He met her gaze. “Now you are ready?”

  She accepted the hand he offered and rose. “I am.”

  As were his men, Michael reflected, though another day would have better prepared them for what was meant to assure Beatrix did not reach Broehne.

  With that thought, he nearly cursed Aldous Lavonne who had surely arranged for the sheriff to arrive early—Aldous who had either learned his plan for revenge was compromised or feared it might be. However, Michael would not commit the sacrilege of uttering vile curses so soon after beseeching God’s blessings. God willing, Sir Durand would not disappoint. But if he did…

  Quelling the impulse to renew his offer to steal Beatrix away, Michael said, “Let us not keep the sheriff waiting any longer.”

  At the threshold, Beatrix looked over her shoulder at what she left behind. Not much, really, excepting the quill and ink that told all that Michael had been unable to tell until this morning.

  “I did not thank you.” She looked to him. “I do.”

  “I should have sent them sooner.”

  She shrugged. “Though I believed I needed them, I have found my way.”

  “As have I.”

  Her heart convulsed. How strange that he should love her, and yet how obvious it should have been. The Michael D’Arci of these past weeks was not the same man who had stood over her at Broehne and demanded justice. Love had changed him. But was it a love destined for nothing?

  Fervently wishing to return to his arms to deeper impress upon herself the memory of him, she looked at his hand on hers. And nearly smiled at the bare glimpse afforded of her own.

  “If you truly wish to do this, Beatrix, we must leave now.”

  Another offer to steal her away. “It is as I wish.”

  He stepped aside for her to precede him.

  At the first landing below, Squire Percival awaited them. “Sir Canute tells that all is in readiness, my lord.”

  Though Beatrix knew she should not make anything of Michael’s hesitation, it unsettled her. What if he—

  “I am pleased,” he said with what sounded like false ease.

  She turned, but before she could voice her fear, he said, “I have given you my word, Beatrix.”

  Was she so easily read? Could she so easily read him? Though tension remained about him, his eyes seemed true. They were going to Broehne.

  “I trust you,” she said and turned to resume her descent, but before she set foot on the first step, a door down the corridor opened.

  “Lady Beatrix,” Lady Laura called. With Clarice gripping her skirts, she hastened from Lady Maude’s chamber. “This is for you.” She thrust a bundle into Beatrix’s arms. “A gown, a veil, a circlet—”

  “And Momma’s slippas,” Clarice chirped, her face turned up like a flower to the sun, “but methinks you feet not big enough.”

  Beatrix nearly laughed. �
�Then I must needs stuff the toes?”

  The little girl nodded.

  Beatrix touched her shoulder. “I shall miss you, Clarice.”

  “When you come back?”

  “I…”

  “Worry not,” Michael interjected. “You shall see Lady Beatrix again.”

  Such promises he should not make. And were they alone, she would tell him so.

  As if satisfied with Michael’s assurance, Clarice hugged an arm around her mother’s legs.

  Beatrix met Lady Laura’s gaze. “I thank you.”

  Though the lady did not speak another word, her eyes told that she wished Beatrix well.

  Next, Lady Maude stepped into the corridor. Clasping her hands at her waist, she met Beatrix’s gaze, inclined her head, and turned back into her chamber.

  “Come,” Michael urged.

  Gripping the bundle, Beatrix began her descent. Halfway down, she asked over her shoulder, “They shall not attend the trial?”

  “Maude is most indignant, but I am sending them home.”

  Of course. If he stood at her side, Soaring would not be his to return to. Not his to protect—or its inhabitants. Thus, he would not leave those he loved in Lavonne’s vengeful hands.

  She halted and turned to where he stood above her. Grateful Squire Percival did not follow closely, she implored, “Love me though you do, I beseech that you affect otherwise, that you do not—”

  “The only way I want Soaring is with you, Beatrix. Without you it means naught.”

  Then he would lose all.

  “Now go.”

  Aching, she took the remaining steps to the hall and was grateful when Michael drew alongside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Squire Percival step past and cross to the doors.

  She looked around the great room. Seated at the lord’s table was the man whom she guessed was the sheriff. At first, he did not notice her, intent as he was on a conversation with one of Michael’s knights—Sir Robert?—but the others seated around him soon called his attention to her.

  The sheriff shoved back, causing his bench to screech. “At last!” He traversed the dais, and the knight with whom he had been speaking followed.

  “Fear not,” Michael spoke low.

  The sheriff halted before Beatrix. “Lady Beatrix of Stern?” he said with steely formality that sent hushed silence around the hall.

  “I am.”

  “I am the sheriff, Baron Tyrell. By order of the justice of the royal court, I am charged with delivering you to Broehne, the seat of the barony of Abingdale, that you be handed up for trial for the murder of Sir Simon D’Arci, brother of Michael D’Arci, son of Lady Maude D’Arci. How say you?”

  She foundered, but when her lids threatened to flutter, she put her chin higher. “I am not guilty of the crime you have…cited, though I shall willingly answer my accusers.”

  Merciful Lord, only one slight hitch to my speech! Now if the trial would go so smooth.

  “Willingly!” scoffed the red-bearded knight who stood alongside the sheriff.

  Feeling Michael tense, Beatrix shifted her gaze to the taunting eyes of the man she had glimpsed from beneath her hood the night of her arrival at Soaring. Though she had seen little of him since, when he fell to her regard, she sensed he watched her.

  “And what other keen insight have you to add to the good sheriff’s summons, Sir Robert?” Michael asked.

  Color rose up the man’s neck. “I was merely—”

  “Aye, you were,” Michael dismissed. “If your men are ready, Sheriff, Lady Beatrix is eager to proceed to Broehne.”

  “Of course they are ready,” the sheriff snapped.

  “Then let us ride.” Without regard to what any might think, Michael gripped Beatrix’s elbow and led her forward.

  “You should not,” she whispered, hoping her words would rise past his hard jaw to his ear.

  He did not loosen his grip.

  “Where is Sir Durand?” she asked low as they stepped into the sunshine.

  “Gone ahead,” he said with a look that told her to ask no more.

  Why? Unfortunately, she would simply have to trust that Michael knew what was best. She looked to the horses. There, held by Squire Percival and standing more glorious than any destrier, was Sartan, a berth of space around him that no other horse boasted.

  “Sartan is sufficiently healed for the ride?” Beatrix asked.

  “Well enough to carry two,” Michael said as they entered the inner bailey.

  For all the admiration due the noble beast, apprehension stole up Beatrix’s spine. Attempting to quiet her fear with reasoning—telling herself it was better astride Sartan with Michael than astride a milder horse alone as she had braced for—she pressed her shoulders back.

  Michael led her forward. However, for all her show of surety, she trembled when he gripped her about the waist to hoist her into the saddle.

  He paused, pulled her left hand from the bundle she carried, and laid it on Sartan’s muscled neck. “He knows you, Beatrix, and I shall be with you.” At her nod, he fit his hands to her waist again.

  “D’Arci!” the sheriff exclaimed. “A horse has been provided for the lady.”

  Michael settled her into the saddle and took the bundle from her. “She rides with me, Baron Tyrell.” He fit Lady Laura’s gift into a saddle bag.

  The sheriff stepped alongside Michael. “This is unseemly.”

  Though the man ranked well above him, Michael fit a foot in the stirrup and swung up behind Beatrix. “My apologies, Sheriff, but I will not argue the matter.” He accepted the reins that Squire Percival reached to him.

  Baron Tyrell sighed. “As you will.”

  Sir Robert, however, was immensely displeased. Upper lip curling to reveal discolored teeth, he stood at the base of the steps and stared at Michael and Beatrix.

  She did not yield to his gaze, ardently vowing she would be the last to look away. And she was. Sneering, Sir Robert strode to his mount.

  “Dear Lord,” Beatrix whispered, “enemies all around.”

  But what of Sir Canute? She searched the dozen who took to their mounts and recognized an aged knight among them. It was Sir Hector who had fought Sir Ewen to the death. The same who, eager to resume his search for Gaenor, had not heeded Beatrix’s protest against leaving her alone with Sir Simon though the knight’s eyes and words had told he knew it was a risk. Still, he likely believed her to be a murderess. Had Lavonne ordered his man to be among her escort? Or had the knight volunteered? If the latter, did he seek retribution for Sir Simon’s death?

  Sir Hector met her gaze. Though the encounter was brief, she glimpsed none of Sir Robert’s malice. Shortly, he and the others urged their mounts forward.

  As Michael turned Sartan to follow, Sir Canute came into view where he sat astride his destrier before the inner drawbridge. He also wore armor. Despite the certainty that something was afoot, relief swept Beatrix to know Michael was not alone.

  Passing over the drawbridge, he slid an arm around her and pulled her back against him. Though the hard links of his mail made for an uncomfortable seat, it felt more right than anything in the world. In Michael’s arms was where she belonged.

  Distracted time and again from the watch he kept for Lavonne’s brigands, Michael silently cursed his arm around Beatrix’s waist that made him keenly aware of the first cradle their children would know. Now was not the time to be distracted, not with brigands awaiting their chance in the woods. Such a fool love made him!

  He considered the stream they approached. Unfortunately, it was necessary for the horses to take water. Fortunately, Michael had thwarted Sir Robert’s earlier call to enter the wood by announcing they would rest further on where the stream ran deeper and clearer out of the wood, knowing it would be easier to defend against an attack in the open rather than amid the trees. Sir Robert had been most unhappy.

  Beatrix looked over her shoulder. “Must we stop?”

  Having sensed her growing trepidation
during the long ride, Michael was momentarily surprised by her eagerness to reach Broehne. But perhaps she also sensed that they were followed.

  “What bothers you, Beatrix?”

  “What lies ahead. I wish the b-burden lifted from me.”

  “It shall be.”

  “When I think of all I have gained that I might now lose…”

  Michael ached for her. “I shall not allow you to go to your death.”

  No sooner did she ease against him than she stiffened. “What do you intend?”

  He ground his teeth. “A trial I have promised, but there my word ends. Do you understand?”

  Her nostrils flared, and he knew she feared that what he intended would bring him ill. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I will suffer no argument.”

  “You should not show such affection!”

  “Nor will I fear Lavonne.” Still, he looked over his shoulder to be sure there was no movement in the wood behind. Nothing of Lavonne’s brigands, nor of Michael’s men who rode watch there. God willing, the latter would overtake the former and Beatrix would be spared the knowledge of what they intended.

  He looked back around and caught the gaze of several of their escort who were not quick enough to look away.

  “They watch us,” Beatrix murmured.

  “You think I care?”

  “You ought to.”

  “All will come ’round. You shall be my wife and the mother of our children.”

  Beatrix searched Michael’s pale eyes and turned more determined that she would secure her release. Never again would she run from anyone, and certainly she would not suffer Michael to do so. She turned forward as the horses were reined in before the stream and tried to appreciate the sunlight that appeared between gathering clouds.

  Though it took little time to water the horses, from the tension Michael exuded, it was as if he were being made to wait hours. Even Sir Canute and Squire Percival appeared eager to resume the journey. Not so for Sir Robert and several others. Leaving their destriers at the stream, they gathered a distance away and talked among themselves.

  “To your mounts!” Michael called.

  A protest rose from Sir Robert’s group.

  “Not even a quarter hour is gone, D’Arci,” the sheriff said between chews of dried meat. “Another quarter hour will do no harm.”