The Yielding (Age of Faith)

by Tamara Leigh

  “Run, Beatrix!” Michael shouted again.

  She jumped back but came up against the table. Knowing she was only bare seconds from the vengeance that ascended the dais a stride ahead of Michael, she turned to flee and belatedly realized she had given Sir Robert her back.

  She did not know if the heat of the knight’s body was real or imagined, but she felt it. And knew she would soon feel his dagger.

  “Lord!” Michael shouted, realizing he and her brothers could not reach Beatrix ahead of Sir Robert. An instant later, his anguished plea was answered by an animal cry of pain.

  Protruding from the shoulder of the one who sought Beatrix’s back was a dagger. An instant later, Sir Robert crashed to the dais with such force the cloth on the lord’s table flapped.

  Clearing the writhing knight who clasped his shoulder and grunted with pain, Michael caught Beatrix’s arm as she bounded from the dais. She cried out when he pulled her around and gasped when she saw it was him.

  He dropped his sword and crushed her to him.

  Merciful Lord, you spared her! By the hand of the one whose dagger protruded from the knight’s shoulder, God had given her back to him.

  “Order!” the justice roared.

  Pressing Beatrix’s head to his chest, Michael looked over his shoulder at her brothers. Hands gripping hilts, faces flushed, the Wulfriths stood over Sir Robert who had pulled the dagger free and was attempting to stem the flow of blood. Could they contain the bloodlust that surely swelled their veins, or would they render immediate judgment on one who had attempted to carry out the task surely given him by his depraved father?

  As the justice continued to call for order, Michael searched the yammering faces for the one who had sent the dagger flying, but it wasn’t until his gaze met Christian Lavonne’s that he found who he sought. Once again, the baron had thwarted his father—had known Aldous would not accept defeat and been prepared for this.

  Christian turned toward the stairs.

  A glance at the Wulfrith brothers showed that they had also searched out their sister’s savior, a man who had proven himself though still they might object to their sister wedding him. Would they make good the bargain struck for Sir Hector’s witness?

  “He is…dead?” Beatrix asked.

  Michael looked into her upturned face. “Though the baron but wounded him, he can harm you no more.”

  “Christian Lavonne? He threw the dagger?”

  “Aye.” He cupped her face. “It is over, Beatrix.”

  She stared at him until, finally, confusion gave way to a smile. “Aye, it is.” She rose to her toes and kissed him.

  Michael reveled in the taste of her, basked in the knowledge that none could part them, and sent up a prayer of thanks for the gift of her love.

  “D’Arci!”

  Michael eased his hands from Beatrix’s waist where he had lifted her into the saddle and turned with her brothers to watch Christian Lavonne cross the outer bailey.

  The big man halted before them. “You will remain keeper of Castle Soaring?”

  After what had happened at trial, Michael had thought the baron would reconsider. “You wish it so?”

  “I do.”

  “What of your father?”

  Emotion flickered across Christian’s gaze. “His mind is gone.”

  Which was the only reason he did not pay the price that his illegitimate son would pay—imprisonment in London for treason, just as the justice had warned would befall any who acted against the verdict. “Still he will conspire against you.”

  “He may try, but he will fail, for I have determined to release those vassals who remain loyal to him.”

  “Those you know are loyal to him.”

  “That is true, but I have not been blind these past years and I know well those who serve him.”

  “What of the men he has set at Soaring and the other castles?”

  “They will also be released. Henceforth, I will tolerate no further interference in the administration of this barony.”

  Michael knew he meant it, but the problem of his father remained. His mind might be gone, but that did not make him any less dangerous. Indeed, it likely made him more so. However, providing Christian was able to root out all of those who might offer aid to Aldous, surely the old man would be unable to work any more ill.

  “Your answer, D’Arci?” Christian prompted.

  Michael was tempted, especially as it would secure his future with Beatrix by providing a worthy home for her and their children. “You know I cannot remain as your father’s physician.”

  “I do. Should he require anything, I shall send for the healer from the village of Tippet.”

  He spoke of the widow, Helene, a young woman who not only delivered babes with ease but was proficient with needle and thread and well-versed in the use of medicinal herbs. Michael’s only regret was that she would be made to suffer Aldous’s company. Of course, given her spirited disposition, she would not likely tolerate the old man’s ill treatment.

  Michael laid a hand on Beatrix’s knee. “What say you?”

  A gentle breeze lifting her flaxen hair, she said, “If ’tis your desire, I would return to Castle Soaring with you and become your wife.”

  “But is it what you want?”

  “It is.”

  “It seems a good offer,” Wulfrith said, surprising them both.

  Michael looked around. “Though I do not seek your approval, Baron Wulfrith, I am glad to have it.”

  The big man inclined his head. However, Sir Abel offered up little himself. Though one side of his mouth edged upward, his face remained mostly impassive. And over his shoulder stood Sir Durand who had not been there minutes earlier.

  Before the knight shuttered his face, Michael caught a glimpse of his longing for the woman he had thought to rescue. Though Michael could not fault the man for his feelings, neither could he suppress a stab of jealousy that another felt for Beatrix. But it was Michael she loved, and that reminder redeemed him.

  Michael turned back to his liege. “I shall remain keeper of Castle Soaring.”

  Christian inclined his head and looked to Baron Wulfrith. The question of the bargain they had struck rose between them.

  It was Wulfrith who spoke first. “You are most proficient with a dagger, Baron Lavonne.”

  Likely a surprise, for Wulfrith would surely have heard of Christian’s attempt to master the sword.

  With a wry turn of the mouth, Christian said, “Distance often proves my best ally, Baron Wulfrith. It assures that I do not lose sight of my goal as can happen when one draws too near.”

  “As with a sword.”

  Christian’s jaw hardened. Doubtless, it pinched his pride that Wulfrith knew his sword skill was wanting. Of course, it was not only the sword to which Christian referred. More, perhaps, he referred to the back he had turned on God that he might prove himself worthy of this barony, as well as the ever-increasing distance he placed between his revenge-hungry father and himself.

  “What of our agreement, Baron Wulfrith?” Christian asked. “You will honor it?”

  “I will.”

  Though his capitulation surprised Christian, as evidenced by his narrowed lids, he quickly recovered. “Then you will deliver Lady Gaenor to Broehne Castle without further delay.”

  Guessing it was Sir Durand who drew a sharp breath, Michael did not look around. Doubtless, the knight who had delivered Lady Gaenor free of the king’s decree did not approve of the Lavonne and Wulfrith alliance.

  And from Wulfrith’s lowering brow, he knew it as well. Still, he held Christian’s gaze. “Only enough delay to assure my sister has time to become accustomed to the idea of marriage.”

  “How much will she require?”

  This time, Wulfrith did hesitate. “Let us be done with one wedding first”—he glanced from Michael to Beatrix—“then we shall talk.”

  “Providing we do more than talk, Baron Wulfrith.”

  “The agreement will be h
onored.” Wulfrith strode to his horse.

  “My lord,” Michael acknowledged the man who was to remain his liege.

  “D’Arci.” As Christian started back across the bailey, Michael put his foot in the stirrup and swung up behind Beatrix.

  Trying not to worry over Gaenor, telling herself Christian would be a good husband to her sister, Beatrix shifted around and met Michael’s gaze.

  Such gray eyes he had, and in their depths was something she knew would shine for no other.

  “Now we shall make a life together,” he said, bending near. “I love you, Beatrix.”

  “As I love you.” She kept her eyes open as his mouth covered hers. And nearly shook her head. How could she have ever believed he resembled Simon? Michael. Only Michael.

  EPILOGUE

  Stern Castle, July 1157

  “You are happy.”

  Reflecting on her wedding day that had made her one with Michael, Beatrix smiled at her sister. “I am very happy.”

  Though the smile Gaenor returned was small, it seemed genuine. “Then I rejoice with you.” She looked out across the hall and sighed. “Married…”

  As she herself would soon be, though they did not discuss that.

  “Michael seems”—Gaenor shrugged her too-thin shoulders—“a good man.”

  Searching him out, Beatrix looked across the great hall and instead found her mother engaged in a conversation with Lady Maude. Her heart swelled for the woman who had been so set upon her youngest daughter becoming a bride of Christ, yet who had spoken no word against Beatrix’s decision to wed. Though it surely made Lady Isobel ache to not see her dream fulfilled, she accepted it, just as she accepted Michael.

  A beloved laugh drew Beatrix’s gaze, and she found her new husband amid the din of celebration that surely knew every crack and corner of her brother’s home. Beside him was her second brother, Everard, a laugh prying at his curled lips until it bounded forth over something Garr said. Then they were all laughing, including Annyn who cradled her infant son, and the grave Sir Canute who somehow found his host’s three-year-old daughter perched on his hip.

  Beatrix sighed. “Aye, Michael is a good man.” And once the wedding guests were enjoined to take their leave—be it on the morrow or several days hence—they would begin their life together. Husband and wife.

  Gaenor laid a hand over Beatrix’s. “You are blessed, little sister.”

  “As you shall be.”

  Somber silence was followed by Gaenor’s attempt at laughter. “You have to say that to me.”

  “Aye, but it is also true. Christian Lavonne—”

  “Did not come.” Gaenor shrugged as if it did not matter, but it did. Though it had been expected that, on the occasion of Beatrix and Michael’s wedding, she would finally meet the man whom King Henry intended her to wed, the baron had sent word that he was delayed. Unfortunately, he had given no reason for his absence. Thus, as they would not meet until the morrow—or perhaps later—Gaenor’s effort to immerse herself in Beatrix’s joy had begun to thin.

  Thinking it best to speak of something else, Beatrix said, “Tell me of your stay at Wulfen Castle.”

  As she and Gaenor had always suffered exceeding curiosity over their family’s stronghold that was forbidden to women, it seemed the best choice. However, Gaenor merely shrugged again as she had done often since her return from Wulfen four days past. “As I have already told, our brother, Everard, mostly kept me confined to a tower room in the donjon.”

  Of course it would have been necessary, not only to maintain Wulfen’s integrity as a castle dedicated to training boys into men but to suppress word of Gaenor’s presence should King Henry grow impatient with the continued delay in carrying out his decree.

  “Then you saw no men other than our brother and the knights a-assigned to see to your needs?” Beatrix hoped the stammer she endeavored to keep from her speech, especially in Gaenor’s presence, went unnoticed.

  Her sister averted her gaze. “From my window, I sometimes watched the young men train.”

  Beatrix knew her sister well enough to realize she was holding something close to her. With an expectant grin and a raised eyebrow, she teased, “Methinks you are not telling all.”

  Gaenor considered Beatrix as if weighing the risk of revealing something of great import, then looked to the lavishly laid table before her. “’Tis true, but naught can come of what I do not tell.”

  “Mayhap I can help.”

  “You cannot. Regardless of my own wishes, I shall soon wed Baron Lavonne.”

  It was only a suspicion that settled on Beatrix, but she said, “Is there someone else, Gaenor? Another you would rather wed?”

  Her sister startled, then shrugged yet again. “I did meet a knight at Wulfen, but I hardly know him well enough to wish marriage.”

  One of those whom Everard had chosen to provide for her stay? Though it seemed the most likely answer, Beatrix was surprised that her brother would not choose aged and experienced knights for the task.

  “How well do you know him?” she asked, though she knew her question might cause Gaenor to once more shrug away a response.

  “We…talked. In the chapel. That is where I met him.”

  “Surely you were not allowed to attend mass with the men?”

  “Of course not. I went only after they were done that I might have the chapel to myself.”

  “Then how—”

  “He was there one day when I thought I was alone.”

  “When he should have been training pages and squires?”

  Gaenor shook her head. “He was not one of our brother’s men, but a visiting knight.”

  That explained one thing, but not another, for Wulfen rarely accepted visitors. In fact, those who escorted pages and squires to Wulfen for training did not tarry.

  “Truly? How long did he visit?”

  Gaenor drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “More than a month, though I did not meet him until a fortnight past.”

  Though Beatrix sensed she delved too deep, she pressed on. “For what purpose was he at Wulfen?”

  “Abel and Everard were training him.”

  “A knight? A man who has already earned his spurs?”

  Though it did not come as a surprise when Gaenor pressed her lips to deny further response, it disappointed, and Beatrix chastised herself for pressing so hard. Whatever else had happened between her sister and the knight, no more would be told this day.

  “Of course, you are surely relieved to be returned to Stern Castle,” Beatrix tried to salvage the conversation.

  Gaenor sipped her wine.

  “Wulfen must have been t-t-” Thoughts running too far ahead of her tongue to keep pace, Beatrix clenched her teeth and dragged the elusive word back to her. “It must have been tedious.”

  This time Gaenor could not help but notice Beatrix’s faltering speech, and as with each time she did so, she winced. However, unlike on past occasions, she did not withdraw.

  A flush warming her hollow cheeks, nearly attaining the depth of the color of her bliaut, she said with urgency, “Do you forgive me, Beatrix?”

  “For what?”

  “For the ill words I spoke the day King Henry delivered his decree that a Wulfrith wed a Lavonne. More, for what happened to you—what would not have happened had you and Sir Ewen not drawn the king’s men away from me and Sir Durand.”

  “Gaenor—”

  She shook her head, stirring the troubled air around her. “I thought I would die when I saw you in the ravine and realized the sacrifice you had made to save me.”

  Beatrix gripped her sister’s hand. “There is naught to forgive. You were hurting when you said what you did and never would I fault you for it. As for what happened to me, had I to do it again, I would, for it brought me Michael.”

  Gaenor scrutinized Beatrix’s face, and her shoulders began to ease. “God favors you, Beatrix. You must please Him mightily.” She smiled softly. “If only I knew Him as you do, perhaps
I might better face what lies in wait for me.”

  Christian Lavonne, who she feared would pounce on her as if she was prey. As much as Beatrix wished to dissuade her sister of what she believed of the baron, it would be futile. However, as Gaenor had thrown wide the door to God who, alone, could provide what she needed, Beatrix grasped the opportunity. “You can know God as I do. You have but to let Him in.”

  “It is not so simple.”

  “It is far from simple, but still a-attainable.”

  Gaenor looked across the hall as if searching someone out.

  Beatrix followed her gaze to their mother, then Michael and their brothers whose gathering now included a brooding Sir Durand. As always, Beatrix felt regret for the pain she had caused him in not returning his feelings. She could only hope he would find someone worthier of his affection.

  Gaenor sighed. “Attainable even when one has sinned greatly?” she asked so softly it was as if she did not intend to speak it aloud.

  Beatrix looked around. Should she let Gaenor’s words pass as if unheard? Determining it was another opportunity to assure her sister of God’s love, she said, “Whatever you have done, Gaenor, you have but to ask for forgiveness and it will be granted.”

  A flush crept her sister’s face. However, as the musicians once more took up their instruments to play for the wedding guests, Gaenor recovered sufficiently to quip, “And if I ask Him to deliver me free of marriage to Baron Lavonne, will that also be granted?”

  “If it is in His will.”

  With a smile that turned her exceedingly pretty despite its wry turn, Gaenor mused, “Always His will, which means I shall wed Lavonne—unless the baron determines he does not want me. Which is possible.” Gaenor pressed her palms to the table and rose.

  Forcing down the questions she wished to ask that her sister was surely unprepared to answer, Beatrix looked up.

  With another glance at the gathering of men, Gaenor bent and kissed Beatrix’s brow. “God willing, I shall one day see through the eyes of love as you do, little sister.”

  Beatrix had to believe she would—that the man she had glimpsed in Christian Lavonne would grow to love her sister as she deserved to be loved. “You shall.”