The Yielding (Age of Faith)

by Tamara Leigh

  From Sir Hector’s unwavering gaze, he also seemed aware of the potential for peril, but he pivoted toward the stairway.

  As Beatrix and Michael followed, Lavonne said, “I would speak with you, D’Arci.”

  Though Beatrix felt Michael’s reluctance to leave her side, he said, “Of course.” He turned to her, drew his hand up the back of her arm and down again. “Certes, I shall be a while, as I must needs also tend those injuries sustained by your brother’s men and mine.”

  During their wait outside the donjon, he had seen to the more serious injuries, but there were others that required his physician’s skill.

  “Until I join you,” he said, looking past her to Garr and Abel, “I am sure you will not lack for company.”

  “She will not,” Garr said.

  As her brothers led her across the hall behind Sir Hector, Beatrix ached over Michael’s absence, and on the first stair looked over her shoulder.

  He met her gaze, nodded, and turned to Baron Lavonne.

  It had been hard to watch her walk away, but necessary. Now, standing before Christian Lavonne in the lord’s solar, impatience gnawed at Michael as he wondered how long before he could return to her. The only good of it was that he could not have left Beatrix better protected. For certain, Wulfrith and his younger brother would allow no ill to befall her.

  “I am pleased you survived the attack,” the baron rent the silence.

  “Some did not.”

  “So I am told. Unfortunately, it could not be prevented.”

  “Could it not?” Michael demanded, uncaring that such a tone one did not use with one’s liege. But Christian Lavonne was no longer his liege, was he?

  The baron’s jaw shifted. “Nay, it could not.”

  Michael took a step toward him. “Because you allow your father to usurp your role, to act in your name, to reduce you to a mere figurehead.”

  Eyes biting like the snow of deepest winter, Christian Lavonne said, “Unless it is your intent that we meet at swords, D’Arci, do not further presume to know my father, and especially not me.”

  “It takes no presumption to know who sent those brigands and who stood by and allowed it.”

  The shadow that fell across the baron’s face was as much borne of anger as the waning torchlight. His right hand flexed, and Michael knew he imagined a sword there. But though the blade had replaced his monk’s psalter, he had yet to truly master it despite intense daily practice.

  Would his skill ever match his longing? Or was longing the problem—that too much of his life had been spent upon the Church to allow him to ease his grip sufficiently to eschew the class that prayed for the class that warred?

  Michael drew a deep breath. “And yet,” he allowed, “it is most curious that you sent Sir Hector lest your father attempt what he did—and for which I do thank you.”

  Christian Lavonne considered him a long moment, then narrowed his lids. “Are you still my man, D’Arci?”

  Unsettled by the question he had not expected, and which suggested the matter was not decided, Michael hesitated. In the end, the only answer was, “When Lady Beatrix is done with this trial, we shall wed.”

  Without flicker of surprise, the baron said, “I did not expect you would ever take a woman to wife, you who likes women less and enjoys their variety better than any man I have known. Truly, I thought you ruined by the lady, Edithe.”

  Of course he knew of the woman’s accusation of ravishment. Despite having come late to his title, Christian Lavonne was well-versed in matters pertaining to his vassals and the administration of his lands.

  “I had also thought myself ruined.” Michael noted the subject did not chafe as much as it had once done. “Lady Beatrix proved me wrong.”

  “Then you profess to love this woman who is said to have murdered your brother.”

  “I do.” As always when he thought upon Simon, he had to step back from memories of the young man he had known. “As I also profess it was not murder that befell Simon.”

  The baron’s gaze drifted to the rush-covered floor. “So it seems.”

  Michael was jolted. “What do you know?”

  “That there will be an alliance between the Lavonnes and the Wulfriths,” he said with spare emotion, “and henceforth, there shall be peace between our families.”

  “Peace only if the Wulfriths’ sister is not falsely convicted of murder.”

  “Aye, which is as I would propose to Wulfrith.”

  Impatient, Michael said, “Tell.”

  Christian Lavonne’s eyes brightened, the intensity of which Michael had only seen when, in swordplay, he gained an advantage over those who had mastered the sweep and thrust of a blade that yet eluded him. “If Wulfrith agrees to hand up Lady Gaenor for marriage without further delay, Lady Beatrix will have the witness she requires to prove her innocence.”

  Between the spaces of what the baron said and did not, Michael glimpsed the aged knight who had come to Beatrix’s aid. “You speak of Sir Hector.”

  Michael did not think he had ever seen Christian Lavonne smile, but something suspiciously near that deepened the corners of his mouth. “You are perceptive, D’Arci.”

  “And you are more ruthless than imagined.”

  “A man bargains with what he has.”

  And what he had was Beatrix’s life, providing she was unable to save herself as she was determined to do. If she failed…

  “And if Wulfrith does not agree to hand up Lady Gaenor?”

  For a moment, Michael glimpsed wavering in the baron’s eyes. “Though it is yet to be seen whether you remain my man, D’Arci, there is no question that Sir Hector is loyal to me.”

  And would not testify unless directed to do so. Michael knew he went too far with his next words, but his ire would not be curbed. “It seems you may yet make your father proud, Baron Lavonne.”

  Aye, too far. Were a sword at hand, his liege would surely have turned it on him. Not that Michael wouldn’t soon enough remind him of the skill he yet lacked.

  The flickering torchlight recasting Christian Lavonne’s face time and again, one moment making him appear human, the next bestial, he said, “Tell Wulfrith I require his answer by dawn.”

  Knuckles sounded on the door.

  “Enter,” the baron called.

  Michael turned and all of him tightened when Sir Robert stepped inside. “My lord,” he grudgingly acknowledged the baron.

  Though Michael was well aware the knight was far from Christian Lavonne’s favor, he had never so deeply sensed the anger that accompanied the baron’s dislike of his half-brother. “What is it you require, Sir Robert?”

  “The physician.” The knight’s gaze landed hard on Michael. “Our father asks after him.”

  Christian Lavonne looked to Michael. “You will attend him?”

  Could he trust himself? Or would the sword at his side prove too much temptation when he stood over the one who sought Beatrix’s death?

  Telling himself he would do nothing to lose the ground gained in his quest to draw nearer God and prove himself worthy of Beatrix, Michael said, “I will, but first I shall see to the injuries sustained by Baron Wulfrith’s men and my own.”

  Though he expected his liege to object, he said, “As you will.” He looked to Aldous’s misbegotten son. “Tell our father the physician will tend him shortly.”

  From the thrust of Sir Robert’s bearded jaw, it was far from the response he desired, but he withdrew.

  Michael also turned to go, but when he reached the door, the baron called to him, “I would have you know that the justice seeks absolution for the lady if she will but accept it.”

  “She will not.”

  Christian Lavonne inclined his head. “So I am told. Thus, it falls to the jury to determine her fate—a jury chosen by the justice himself.”

  That Michael had not known. Refusing to embrace relief, as it might prove a weakness when there was still so much that could go wrong, he said, “To your father’s utmo
st displeasure, I am sure.”

  “Which is mine to deal with. And I shall.”

  Then perhaps Christian Lavonne would eventually shrug out from beneath the mantle of Aldous’s influence. God willing, it would not be too late by the time he fully emerged as the sole and unquestioned baron of Abingdale.

  “We were told you had sustained a head injury.”

  Beatrix looked up at Garr from the chair he had placed before the hearth for her. “Evidence of which you have already noted, I am sure.” She glanced at Abel who sat in the chair opposite hers.

  “Aye,” Garr said, “though the injury seems not as severe as feared.”

  She could not help but smile at the welcome observation and sent up a silent prayer that she would present as well on the morrow. “I am much recovered. God willing, I shall con-continue to improve.” Only one error, and a small one at that. “Mother is well?”

  “She is.”

  “And Gaenor?”

  Garr’s gaze shifted. “Better since she was told you live.”

  “And before it was told?”

  Abel cleared his throat. “She has long borne pain and guilt over the loss of her little sister. But she fares better now and shall surely continue to do so.”

  “She is not ill, is she?”

  Abel shrugged. “Sick of heart, is all.”

  “Worry not over her,” Garr said. “She shall recover fully.” Then, as if uncomfortable with further talk of Gaenor, he said, “What of the Church, Beatrix?”

  Knowing he would not be budged to speak further on their sister, Beatrix said, “Though it is what you and mother wish for me, and what I once wished for myself, I choose Michael. To w-worship and love our Savior, I do not have to…commit my life to the Church. He lives in me as He will live in the children Michael and I make.”

  “From what I have heard, this D’Arci is hardly a godly man.”

  And the curse that had broken from his lips when he learned his men had died only reinforced those tales.

  “Especially where women are concerned,” Abel muttered, earning himself Garr’s barbed gaze.

  Then they did not think she knew of the false accusation of ravishment against Michael. Before Beatrix could tell otherwise, Abel snorted. “I only repeat what was told to us and confirmed many times over, Garr.”

  “I know of what you speak,” Beatrix said. “Michael has told me all, and I believe him to be as wronged as I am in being accused of murdering Sir Simon.”

  “And if it is deceit he works upon you?” Abel asked.

  “He does not. He loves me.”

  “Perhaps,” Garr said, “but will love be enough?”

  She met his gaze and knew he had returned to the matter of godliness. “God grows in Michael. That is enough.”

  Abel sighed, sank deeper into the chair, and thrust his legs out before him. “Let us pray you are right.”

  Of Beatrix’s three brothers, he was the most curious of all, one moment a reflection of Garr, the next of Everard, then their father, and sometimes their mother. Somewhere behind all those reflections, resided Abel himself, but he showed himself too rarely to be truly known. And, strangely, he seemed content with the arrangement, as if it was a game he quite enjoyed.

  “You are prepared for the morrow, Beatrix?” Garr asked.

  “I am.”

  He dropped to his haunches beside her. “If you are found guilty, I shall deliver you free of Broehne.”

  “As Michael himself has vowed, but ‘twill not be necessary, for I will deliver myself.” She had to believe she could or she would falter when she stood at trial.

  Garr’s nostrils flared. “Already a jury is chosen. A jury likely disposed toward Aldous Lavonne.”

  “Then I must needs dispose them…otherwise.”

  He rose and turned toward the bed. “You need sleep for the morrow. Abel and I will stand watch.”

  “I would like to wait on Michael.”

  “It could be hours ere he returns. Sleep, Beatrix.”

  Her lids were heavy. But though she did not believe she would gain much rest, she agreed. However, she was still awake an hour later. And Michael had yet to return.

  Curse King Henry! Curse the Wulfriths! Curse D’Arci! Curse them all!

  The shaking of the bed evidencing how hard he trembled, Aldous pulled himself back from the silent rantings that filled his head to screaming pitch. If he was not careful, this writhing would crack open his heart and he would be denied what he most needed—to leave this world knowing the Wulfriths felt the loss and pain he had long suffered.

  If those accursed brigands had not failed him, if D’Arci had not known what was intended and set men to the woods, if the traitorous physician had not conspired with the Wulfriths to outnumber those who were to have seen the Wulfrith whore dead…

  He lifted a hand to drag it down his face only to pause on his disfigured fingers that had once been straight and tapered, that had gripped a sword strong and true, that had clasped the hand of the woman who had grown to love him as it was good for a wife to do.

  He squeezed his eyes closed, but the memories followed him to the backs of his lids. With panting breath, he opened his eyes and stared at the door that had yet to admit D’Arci.

  How he longed to suffer life no more. If not for the greater need to give back what the Wulfriths had dealt him, he would not. But now that they were within his walls, they would not emerge unscathed, nor that perfidious scum, D’Arci. That vile, loathsome, godforsaken—

  Aldous saw a flash of white, felt something in the confines of his skull stretch taut, then heard—would swear he heard—something snap.

  Shuddering, he focused on his bent and burned fingers. And smiled as the last vestiges of the man who had sacrificed his very skin to save ungrateful wretches slid away. It did not matter that his soul also slipped away. After all, souls were burdensome, ever holding a man back. Inducing him to compromise. Fabricating excuses for those who were lacking. Disposing him toward honor and civility when the edge of a sword was far more effective. Turning him from justice where justice was due. It did not matter. What mattered was a life for a life—more, if possible.

  By the time the door admitted the physician, Aldous was strangely calm. “Ah, D’Arci.” He let his voice smile where his lips could not. “Come.”

  Never had Michael been received by Aldous in such a manner. Indeed, the old baron had only ever been morosely mute or abrasively demanding. Michael redoubled the vigilance with which he had entered and swept the shadowed room for any who might be lurking. Determining that he and the old man were alone, he approached the bed.

  “Nearer.” Aldous beckoned.

  Reminding himself of his dagger that could be brought to hand in a moment, Michael halted alongside the bed and looked down on the one who would continue to seek Beatrix’s death. And was tempted to yield to this fire that would have him free the world of such wickedness—wickedness that became more evident when Michael looked into eyes that would have held the devil in awe.

  Despite Aldous’s strangely calm exterior, he fomented over his failed brigands. And yet there remained something in his depths that had once been in greater evidence—torment. A bare flicker, but still present.

  As always, Michael felt a pang for the old man’s suffering, though this time it was against his will.

  Aldous waved him nearer. “Surely you do not fear a withered old man near death,” he grunted out so low that Michael had to strain to catch the words.

  As Aldous intended he should do, he bent low.

  The words Aldous’s moist lips delivered to his ear revealed the truth of him. “My revenge begins with your whore.” He sniffed loudly. “Indeed, the smell of her burning flesh is upon the very air we breathe.”

  Michael’s sympathy fled, and he knew he would never again be in danger of its return. Anger again tempting his hand to the blade, he curled his fingers into his palms and put his mouth near Aldous’s ear. “Nay, ’tis the death of your brigands
you smell. And, God willing, your own.” That last he could not contain. Straightening, he looked down upon the old man.

  A corner of his mouth convulsing, Aldous stared at Michael. “Unless you intend to murder me as the Wulfriths murdered my son—and your brother—I will never yield up this life until justice is done.”

  “Justice,” Michael scoffed. “Cling to your justice as long as you will, old man, but never will your evil touch Lady Beatrix. On the morrow she goes free.”

  Aldous’s lashless lids spasmed, but he recovered. With a smile that was little more than a flat line warped at the corners, he said, “Free from this world but not hell.”

  Knowing that if he remained, his conviction to keep from putting Aldous through would fail, Michael turned away. “On the morrow,” he said as he crossed to the door.

  When he stood in the corridor with the door at his back, he drew a deep breath and several more before deeming himself calm enough to approach Wulfrith with Christian’s proposal.

  Would the baron’s terms be acceptable or wanting? Michael wondered as he advanced on the chamber where Beatrix’s brothers watched over her. Though she was determined to free herself, he prayed Wulfrith would hand over one sister to better the other’s chance of gaining a verdict of innocence. And no guilt would Michael feel for his desire to improve Beatrix’s chances, for still she would be allowed to defend herself as promised.

  He paused before the door behind which he had several times passed a night at Broehne and frowned. Beatrix could not be told that her sister was the price paid for Sir Hector’s witness, for she would oppose the bargain, regardless that King Henry would eventually force the Wulfriths to surrender Lady Gaenor, regardless that marriage to Christian would not be such an ill union as feared. The baron had shown a stripe of ruthlessness that had threatened to undo Michael, but it was not yet as deep and wide as his father’s. As the wife of Christian Lavonne, Lady Gaenor might never be loved, but neither would she be ill-treated. There was consolation in that. Now if the Wulfriths could be convinced.