by Tamara Leigh
Gaenor sighed. “Now I am going to dance at my sister’s wedding.” She strode the length of the dais and partnered with a household knight who, though not as tall as she, turned her about the floor with ease.
“Will you dance with me, Wife?”
Despite her worries over Gaenor, Beatrix beamed up at her husband. “I will.”
He drew her to her feet and gazed into her upturned face. “I like the way you look upon me, Beatrix D’Arci.”
“Do you?” Remembering Gaenor’s words, she said, “That is because I look upon you through the eyes of love.”
“As I look upon you.” Michael kissed her.
Sighing into the man who had yielded all for her, Beatrix thanked God that He had willed that she and Michael become one—He who had always known well His plans for her. As He knew well His plans for Gaenor.
EXCERPT
THE REDEEMING
Book Three in the Age of Faith series
Available Spring 2013
Wulfen Castle, England, June 1157
To the death.
Perspiration running into his eyes, the blood of a half dozen wounds seeping through the weave of his tunic, Christian Lavonne reminded himself of what was required to best his opponent.
Think death.
Drawing back his sword, he eyed the vulnerability of the knight’s neck that glistened with the efforts of the past half hour.
Feel death.
Lunging forward, he shifted his grip on the hilt.
Breathe death.
Smelling his opponent’s bloodlust, he arced the blade toward the exposed flesh that would assure victory.
Embrace death.
Putting from him all he had been taught of mercy and forgiveness, he slashed the blade down. And met steel.
“Surely you can do better!” the knight spat.
Christian growled, swept his blade up off the other man’s, and swung again—only to yield up the blood of his forearm.
“Ho!” The knight grinned. “Do I unnerve you, Lavonne? Make your heart beat faster? Blood run colder?”
Christian knew it was anger the other man sought. And he would have it.
Heart pounding as if upon the stoutest door, he swung again. Missed. Again. Missed. Again. And finally set his blade to the knight’s lower thigh. However, he was allowed but a moment of satisfaction before his opponent leapt at him.
Christian jumped back from the thirsty blade and came up against the fence. If not for the thrust of his weight that caused the wood to crack, the knight would have had what he sought—blood for blood. Christian plummeted backward and landed hard on the splintered fence rail.
“You are had, Lavonne.” His opponent settled the crimson tip of his blade to the great vein in Christian’s neck. “Beg for mercy.”
Throat raw with exertion, Christian flexed his hand on his sword hilt. “Never, knave!”
Fire leapt in the man’s grey-green gaze and the stench of death rose to Christian’s nostrils. Blessedly, it retreated on the knight’s great sigh. “Well, then”—he turned his blade down, set its tip to the ground, and leaned on the hilt—“at least humor me with a recitation of the lesson that applies to the dire situation in which you find yourself.”
Grinding his teeth, Christian rolled to the side and gained his feet. “That would be lesson one.”
“One?” With a forearm, the knight brushed back the damp brown hair clinging to his brow. “Pray, enlighten me as to how that applies to your sound defeat.”
Christian glared. “I do not refer to your lesson, Sir Abel, but mine—one in which I fear you are in true need of instruction.”
A suspicious light entered the knight’s eyes. “Aye?”
“Address one’s better as befits their station.”
Sir Abel’s gaze narrowed, but just as it seemed the tension might once more see them at swords, he made a sweeping bow. “Most esteemed Baron Lavonne, pray honor this lowly knight by reciting the appropriate lesson.” He straightened. “I humbly await your good grace.”
Insufferable! And only a sharp reminder of the reason he was at Wulfen Castle made it possible for Christian to give the knight what he asked. “Lesson Three, neglect not one’s back.”
“Correct. Of course, considering you were already dead, ‘tis hardly relevant.”
“I was dead? You were dead first.”
Sir Abel snorted. “You flatter yourself, Lavonne—er, Baron Lavonne.”
Christian looked from the bloodied and rent fabric behind which the knight’s heart beat to the torn fabric centered on his bowels. “Were we not merely practicing at swords, Sir Abel, twice I would have done more than score your flesh. Indeed, your very life would be forfeit.”
“Had you a sword arm.” The knight swung up his blade and pointed at the bloodied tear in Christian’s sleeve.
“Which would have been entirely possible with a leg cut out from beneath you.” Christian jutted his chin at where the fabric was split above the knight’s knee.
And so they might continue until every crimson tear was accounted for, as they had done each day these past three.
Though when they had first faced one another on the training field a month ago and Sir Abel’s skill at sword had made Christian’s appear sorely inadequate, Christian had improved greatly. Despite the knight’s disdain for his pupil, he was an excellent instructor. Given more time, it was possible Christian would attain a level of mastery similar to that enjoyed by his warrior-bred opponent who would soon be his unwilling brother-in-law. And that possibility had to be as surprising to Sir Abel as it was to Christian who had not only been born to the Church but had attained tonsure and habit before gaining an inheritance of which he had only ever dreamed. Unfortunately, the cost of the coveted inheritance had been the death of his older brother, something for which he had yet to forgive himself.
“The lesson is done.” Sir Abel thrust his sword into its scabbard and pivoted.
Christian glanced at the sun that had yet to touch the treetops of the distant wood. “Done?”
As if he did not hear the dissension in his pupil’s voice, Sir Abel continued toward the walls of Wulfen Castle.
“Methinks ‘tis I who unnerves you, Sir Abel,” Christian called.
The knight swung around.
Christian almost smiled. “I who makes your heart beat faster, your blood run colder.”
“Flatter yourself if it so pleases, Lavonne,” Sir Abel once more dropped Christian’s title. “As for me, I remain content in the knowledge that, as long as mastery of the sword eludes you, I am in no danger of forfeiting my life.”
“Your blood tells otherwise.”
“Ha! Mere scratches.”
Why he felt impelled to argue with the insufferable man, Christian did not understand, especially as their mutual animosity had lessened considerably since his arrival at Wulfen. But before he could advance the argument, Sir Abel said, “Do you wish to know the reason you have yet to truly master the sword, Baron?”
With half a dozen strides, he retraced his path across the parched grass and halted before Christian. “Regardless of how angered you become when we meet at swords, regardless of how many times I mark your flesh, you cannot wholly commit to the taking of life.”
A retort sprang to Christian’s lips, but he did not loose it, for what Sir Abel said was true. Though the knight took every opportunity to remind his pupil what was required to defeat an opponent—to think, feel, breathe, and embrace death—and several times Christian had nearly succeeded in reaching such a place within himself, he could not fully accept that death should be the end result of all clashes between men. As for attaining that place while at practice, that was the most bewildering of all, for how could one truly seek another’s death without actually committing the act?
Sir Abel took another step toward him. “The reason you cannot defeat me, Lavonne, is that you do not wish me dead.”
Suppressing the urge to repay aggression with aggression, Christia
n said, “Need I remind you that we are not truly at battle?”
The knight shrugged. “Whether that is so or not, a warrior must believe that all that stands between him and death is the taking of his opponent’s life. Even when merely at practice.”
Christian stared at the man who stood nearly as tall as he. “If what you say is so, it follows that few squires would attain the rank of knight, for all would lie dead.”
“Those who train at Wulfen—”
“—learn to control the moment between life and death. Aye, this you have told many times.”
The knight’s face, flushed with the exertion of their contest, darkened further. “When you and I are at swords, all I think of is your death.”
“And when we are not at swords?”
When Sir Abel finally answered, the anger that had spat words from him was nearly wiped clean. “It is true I am opposed to my sister wedding you, and that your death would resolve the matter, but do I truly wish it? Nay, Baron Lavonne”—titled again—“outside of practice, I do not wish you dead.”
Not for the first time amazed at how quickly the knight cooled his emotions, Christian drew a deep breath in an attempt to tamp down his own. “I shall take comfort in that.”
Sir Abel started to turn away, but halted. “Heed me well. Though you have much improved since your arrival, when next you face a true enemy—and you shall—you must wish his death. Can you do that?”
Though Christian had taken lives in battle following the attainment of his title, he had never done so with a desire to see an opponent dead. It was not bloodlust that drove him, but the mere—and potent—need to survive. And survive he had barely done.
“If you cannot, you will make a widow of my sister. Now tell me, can you or can you not do it?”
It was not the first time the knight had issued the challenge, and would not be the first time Christian was unable to assure him.
Sir Abel broke the silence. “Born to the Church you may have been, but it is no longer who you are. Indeed, as evidenced by your refusal to bow your head at prayer or enter the chapel, it is most obvious you have given God your back.”
His words jolted, not only because the conclusion drawn was so near the truth, but that Christian’s absence from mass and his inability to show proper respect at the blessing of meals had not gone unnoticed—and by this seemingly ungodly man who told that a knight must seek death to prevail.
“Do not make God your reason for not doing what is required of you, Baron Lavonne. If you cannot protect my sister, your people, and your lands, that title for which you demand respect will be lost.” He swung away.
Feeling every beaten ridge and furrow of his sword hilt, Christian watched the man disappear around the castle’s northern wall.
Deny it though he longed to do, it was good he had trod his pride and accepted the invitation to train at Wulfen Castle. If it was necessary to seek another’s death to prevail, he might eventually fail, but with the skills acquired beneath Sir Abel’s grudging instruction, there was less chance than before. He would protect his people and lands, as well as the woman with whom King Henry had commanded him to speak vows—Gaenor Wulfrith who had fled with her sister nearly five months past to escape marriage to him.
Easing his grip on the sword, Christian scanned the walls of Wulfen Castle that had been the Wulfrith sisters’ destination all those months ago. Though it was believed that Lady Gaenor had made it here to her family’s stronghold, a castle exclusive to men and dedicated to the training of boys into knights, her younger sister had not. While being pursued by the king’s and Christian’s men, Beatrix Wulfrith had met with ill. Thus, if not for Christian’s physician, a man with a powerful reason to hate her, she would be dead. Instead, a fortnight hence she would wed Michael D’Arci, the man who had saved her life. And at that wedding, Christian would finally meet Gaenor who was told to bear little resemblance to her petite and comely sister.
Christian grimaced. Not that he cared what the woman looked like. Rather, he resented being made to wait so long to meet her. Though he had thought he might encounter her during his training here, it seemed she had been removed to one of the family’s other castles. As for talk of her ever having been present here, a woman among so many men, there was none—as if she had never come. And perhaps she had not, though it seemed the surest place to secrete her.
He eyed the men-at-arms visible between the battlements of the stronghold, next the immense donjon that rose at the center of the enclosure. Ominous. No surprise that King Henry had not brought an army against his vassal to sooner bring about the alliance required of the warring Wulfriths and Lavonnes. Indeed, if not for the bargain Christian had struck with the oldest brother, the Wulfriths might yet defy the king’s edict. But Christian had delivered what he had promised and, providing the Wulfriths delivered what they promised, soon he would wed.
Resolved to meeting his betrothed at her sister’s wedding in July, Christian wiped his blade on the hem of his tunic and returned his sword to its scabbard. Only a fortnight longer, he reminded himself, and the darkness of these past years might begin to recede. Except for that cast by his father, of course—the aged and ailing Aldous Lavonne who vowed he would not seek his grave until the death of his beloved son, Geoffrey, was avenged. Geoffrey, whose passing had made Christian heir to all of Abingdale.
Once more stabbed with guilt, Christian set off toward the castle with a heavy tread intended to grind all thoughts of his brother underfoot. It worked. For a while.
“Accursed cur!”
Everard looked over his shoulder at his younger brother whose arrival on the training field was evident well in advance of his appearance. Noting the numerous rips in his brother’s clothing, Everard attempted to suppress the smile begging at his mouth.
Abel ground to a halt. “You think it funny?”
Trying to gain control of the larger smile that sought to crack his face wide, Everard turned back to the squires who had paused in their hand-to-hand combat to await further instruction.
He nodded for them to continue and returned his attention to Abel. “I do think it funny, little brother. Though, in the interest of brotherhood, I would prefer that I not win our wager, it seems I have done so yet again.” He tracked his gaze down Abel, tallying the number of times Christian Lavonne had found his mark. “At least a dozen strikes, and your instruction lasted half as long as it should have.” He held out a hand. “I have won.”
Abel glared at his outstretched palm. “Ill gotten gain,” he grumbled, then dug into the purse on his belt and slapped two pieces of silver in his brother’s palm.
“’Twas your wager.” Everard rubbed the coins together. “I but accepted, and reluctantly, if you recall.”
“Reluctant as a groom on his wedding night,” Abel scorned.
Though Everard was not one to make free with his emotions, he nearly laughed, for it was true he liked to wager, especially this brother who was determined to best him at every turn. Indeed, any moment now—
“A new wager!” Abel propped his hands on his hips.
“Methinks you ought to sleep off this one ere wagering more coin than you can afford to lose.”
Abel gave his purse a shake. Satisfied with the jangle, he said, “On the morrow, Lavonne will land less than a dozen marks.”
“A mere dozen when this day he proved capable of such—and in half the time?” Everard shook his head. “A fool’s wager to make against a man who is progressing as well as the baron.”
Abel considered him, considered him some more, then grudgingly conceded, “Aye, a fool’s wager.” He blew a breath up his face that caused the dark hair on his brow to lift. “The knave is progressing better than expected. If he would but set his mind to the taking of life, he might prove quite dangerous.”
Abel and his talk of death. If not that Everard shaved his head, he might drag a handful of hair from his scalp. “You know that Garr does not approve of such means, Abel.”
“Godly Garr whose knees are surely worn out from the amount of time spent kneeling at prayer.” Abel glanced heavenward. “Not that I do not believe in showing the respect due God. It just seems unproductive to expend so much time conferring with the Lord who is more inclined to listen than respond.”
Everard narrowed his lids. “You think?”
“No more than you.” Abel looked pointedly at Everard’s knees, the material of which was far from worn. “I suppose I should be grateful you do not seem to mind the manner in which I train those given into my charge—at least, the end result.”
Though Everard longed to deny it as he knew Garr would have him do, he could not, for there was a fierceness about the squires that Abel trained into knights—one that made it difficult for other squires to best them. But Everard would never admit it.
Knowing it was best to leave the subject be, he returned to the matter of the man whom the king was determined to make their brother-in-law. “What word would you have me send to Garr?” he asked for the dozenth time since Lavonne’s acceptance of the invitation to better his sword skill—a self-serving invitation to allow the Wulfriths to more closely observe the baron and determine whether or not to defy the king’s order to hand over Gaenor.
“Send word that, with much loathing, I concur that Christian Lavonne does not appear to be the same as his father or brother.”
It was as Everard had concluded from his own observations this past month. “You are surprised?”
Abel shrugged. “As you know, I was present when Baron Lavonne came to Beatrix’s aid.”
Mention of the attempt on the life of their youngest sister caused Everard’s insides to coil. Though it was true he had not been present, charged as he was with overseeing the training at Wulfen Castle since Garr had wed four years past, he knew all that had transpired.
The worst of it was that Christian Lavonne’s illegitimate brother, Sir Robert, had done their father’s bidding to work revenge on a Wulfrith. If not for the dagger Christian had thrown, Beatrix would lie dead. Instead, it was Sir Robert who had fallen. But just as Christian could not seek death now, neither could he then. Thus, the wounded Sir Robert languished in a London prison and would likely remain there until the end of his days.
