by Tamara Leigh
She inclined her head. “Godspeed, my sons.”
Only himself to blame.
Still, Christian fomented over the tidings received upon reaching Stern Castle six hours past. Though occupied this past sennight with the havoc wreaked by his brother who yet evaded capture, he had been set for his private audience with Gaenor. Now, it seemed it would be public—providing they overtook her and Sir Durand. Durand who was surely the one to whom Gaenor had entrusted her heart, with whom she had spent the night past, and who might have stolen the gift of her virtue that was to have been Christian’s.
Alternately gripped with jealousy, anger, and a sense of betrayal for what they had shared at the stream, he perspired deep into the tunic beneath his chain mail as the declining sun blistered the sky. It would be dark before long, but even if the Wulfriths paused for the night, he would press on.
He gripped the reins tighter and squeezed his eyes closed. Lord, let her not have so easily gone into the arms of another. Let the feelings between us sustain her though she surely thought never to see me again.
He opened his eyes. Was he asking too much? Especially considering her feelings for Sir Durand?
“I hope ‘tis for my sister you pray,” Sir Abel raised his voice above the pounding of hooves, “and your forbearance.”
Christian looked at the knight where he had drawn alongside. He resented the interruption, but it did not anger him as it might have done a sennight past. Despite the strain that was yet between him and Abel, during their pursuit of Robert and his brigands they had come to a kind of understanding and grudging respect for the other’s abilities. They tolerated one another well—when they pursued a common enemy. Now they pursued Abel’s sister whose flight from Stern Castle portended ill for her family.
Though Baron Wulfrith and his brothers had not appealed to Christian to wed their sister regardless of her having once more fled, Christian knew that if he petitioned the king, Henry would likely release him from the decree. But he would make no such petition, for he was determined to wed Gaenor. Of course, if she had given herself to—
“Well?” Sir Abel pressed.
Christian narrowed his gaze on the knight. “I do pray for your sister and my forbearance. You should as well.”
“I shall consider it.”
As obstinate as ever…
Christian urged his mount ahead.
She had made a mistake. She had known it the moment she stepped through the sally port and found Sir Durand waiting for her…when they crept to the wood…when they mounted the horse there…when she put her arms around him to hold tight and felt him stiffen. But still she had gone, and with each league she had grown heavier with regret. Once could be forgiven, but to twice flee marriage was beyond dishonorable to the Wulfrith name. Could she do it again, she would do it different, but it was too late. By now, Baron Lavonne had arrived and found his bride gone. Soon, the king would set men after her and Durand. What else was there but to press on?
Weary from hours of clinging to Sir Durand, with only two brief stops to allow them and their mount to eat and drink, she sank deeper against the knight’s back and blinked at the landscape that sped past now that they had left the shelter of the wood.
Were they yet upon the barony of Abingdale? Though Sir Durand had told her it was fastest to pass through the southernmost corner, the thought of entering Baron Lavonne’s lands, even for a short time, caused chill bumps to rise across her limbs. Or was the waning day responsible?
She lifted her head from the knight’s back and glanced at the sky. It was streaked with oranges, reds, and purples, the rays of the setting sun all that remained of daylight.
They would ride through the night, a difficult undertaking but necessary to outdistance their pursuers. Unfortunately, their flight had not gone unobserved, for once they had met with a group of villagers and twice they had spotted riders in the distance. If it was told that a single horse bearing a knight and lady had passed near, their course would be known.
Wishing it was not too slow and dangerous to often make use of the cover of the wood, Gaenor pressed her face to Sir Durand’s back again and once more felt him stiffen. How it hurt, this regret of his that she was not Beatrix!
Hours later, mantle drawn tight about her, eyes closed against the night sky, mind meandering between dream and reality, she was shaken awake when the horse lurched.
Gripping Sir Durand tighter, she jerked her head up as the man before her spat one oath after another and dragged on the reins. Without any pretense of gentleness, he unclasped Gaenor’s hands from about his waist and jumped to the ground.
“Let us pray he has but taken a stone.” He bent to inspect the horse’s hooves.
As he did not offer to assist her down, Gaenor slid from the animal’s back. In silence, she watched as Sir Durand lifted the left hoof. Since the quarter moon provided only bare light, he ran his hand over it before moving to the right hoof.
A moment later, a foul curse flew from his mouth, at the end of which he growled, “He is lamed!”
Then no longer of use to them. If not for their flight, it was possible the horse could be healed of its affliction, but now it would have to be put it down. As much pained by the animal’s sacrifice as the fear stealing upon her, Gaenor turned away in anticipation of the dagger Sir Durand would draw.
“We will send him opposite,” he said.
She looked around and saw him remove the packs from behind the saddle. “Opposite?”
“If I put him down now and he is found, it will be known we have entered the wood here.”
“You could put him down in the wood.” Gaenor winced at the tremble in her voice.
“Better we send him opposite. Without the burden of carrying us, he will be able to distance himself and perhaps lead our pursuers astray.”
Their pursuers who were surely drawing near and would not pause for the night. How near were they? And without the speed of a horse, was it possible that she and Sir Durand might yet escape? Not likely.
Sir Durand slapped the animal’s hindquarter. With a whinny, the destrier trotted off, the severity of its laming less obvious now that it was unburdened.
“Come.” Sir Durand pivoted.
She followed him to the bordering wood, stumbling often as the uneven ground that had proved the destrier’s undoing attempted to undo her. Momentarily entertaining the possibility that Sir Durand might also send her opposite if she was lamed, she trailed him among the darkly-shadowed trees.
His silence made her ache, as did the distance he maintained between them as if he was relieved that she no longer clung to him. Though he did not voice his regret of stealing her from Stern, she felt it now that their chance of escape was so greatly diminished. The knight had sacrificed much to aid her, and perhaps all if her brothers captured him. Or if he fell into King Henry’s hands.
Knowing what she must do, she halted and called out, “Our cause is lost, Sir Durand.” If ever there were a cause.
Presenting as little more than a shadow between the trees ahead, he turned. “We do not have time for regrets, Lady Gaenor. If we are to stay ahead of your brothers, we must continue.”
“You go. I will return.”
He strode back. “I said I would deliver you from marriage, and I shall.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but something told her to swallow the words that would only alert him to the strength of her resolve and cause him to take measures to assure she did not slip away. Feigning acquiescence, she sighed. “If you are certain.”
“I am.”
She followed him and, for the next half hour or so, Sir Durand often glanced around to assure himself that she was yet there. When he finally eased his watch, she seized the first opportunity to escape.
Grateful for the moist leaves underfoot, she changed course and hastened tree to tree lest he realized he was alone. She soon lost sight of him, and many minutes passed before she heard him call to her.
He was so distant
that she no longer had to worry about branches snapping underfoot. Thus, as quickly as the darkness allowed, she sped among the trees.
She heard him call her name, at times more distant, other times nearer, but always she stayed far enough ahead that her escape was assured. What would come of it with the dawning of day, she did not know, but her hope was that, from the bordering wood, she would spy her brothers. If not, she would keep to the trees as much as possible and make her way back to Stern Castle.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gaenor, Garr realized as the figure stepped from the trees and dropped the hood of her mantle to reveal her dark blonde hair. And it appeared she was alone.
Wondering what had become of Sir Durand, he reined in and lifted a hand to halt the others. Three drew alongside—Abel, Everard, and Baron Lavonne.
“I would ask that you remain here,” Garr said, looking to the latter whose gaze was fixed on the woman at the edge of the wood. “’Tis better this way.”
Eyes shadowed, unshaven jaw set in a hard line, the baron considered Garr. “I will wait, but ‘tis to Broehne Castle we journey next.”
Though Garr would have preferred to return Gaenor to Stern, there could be no argument. Not only were they less than two hours from Lavonne’s home, but it was, ultimately, his sister’s destination—providing the baron did not seek release from their marriage.
“To Broehne,” Garr agreed, then exchanged glances with his brothers. “I go alone.” He gentled his mount forward, not wanting to rush on his sister who, after all, had come forward to be found and would surely be grateful for the extra time in which to prepare herself to receive him.
As he neared, she propped her chin high on the cool, morning air.
“Gaenor,” he said, easing his destrier to a halt ten feet distant from her.
“Garr.”
He looked from her hair that had snagged leaves and twigs, down her mantle that had faired just as poorly with the wood she had tramped for what must have been hours. “You are well, Sister?”
“I am.”
“What of Sir Durand?”
“He is gone.”
The anger rippling beneath his surface threatening to rise above it, he said between his teeth, “He left you?”
“Nay.”
“Then?” he growled, frustrated by her refusal to elaborate without prompt. But perhaps it was the best she could do, he considered. Though her bearing was erect and eyes and chin did not waver, emotions surely abounded within.
“I left,” she said.
“Why?”
She clasped her hands before her, and he saw they trembled. “I am responsible for this day, not Sir Durand.”
She protected the knight, but was the man truly such a coward? Garr, himself, had trained him, and many times Sir Durand had proved he was above fear.
“It seems I do not know this knight as well as I thought,” he said. “He breaks fealty with the Wulfriths by stealing our sister away, and when she determines to return to her family, he allows her to go on foot—alone!”
“His horse was lamed, and I left under cover of night so he would not know I had gone.”
Then she had stolen away from him, doubtless to protect him from the Wulfriths. Without a mount to keep ahead of their pursuers, who had thrice been pointed in their direction by those whose paths Durand and Gaenor had crossed, they would soon have found themselves overtaken.
Garr’s anger toward Sir Durand pushing through despite his attempt to suppress it, he said, “When he is found, his punishment will be dire.”
She drew a deep breath. “I am ready to return home and wed the man chosen for me.”
“If he will have you,” Garr said, more sharply than intended.
“I do not doubt he is angered.”
Gritting his teeth, he sent up a silent prayer for God to direct his tongue. “I will not lie to you. He is angry that, once again, you have fled. But this time it is a more serious matter, for you did so without your family’s consent and with a Wulfrith knight who broke fealty to aid you. Surely you know that the two nights shared with Sir Durand do not speak well of you.”
Gaenor stared at her brother. She was not such a fool to hope none would think the worst of her and Sir Durand. After all, what loyal knight forsook his lord and his honor merely to aid a lady discontented with an arranged marriage? It could only be assumed they were lovers. And they would be right, though only about that first time months past when Sir Durand had comforted her over what they had believed was Beatrix’s death.
Pained with remembrance of what had come of the solace the handsome knight had offered, Gaenor shook her head in an attempt to cast off the sin that made her feel soiled and foul. She had repented, but it persisted like a disease no medicinal could treat.
“Gaenor?”
She saw the question in her brother’s gaze that he did not ask. Even if it meant the baron rejected her, bringing further disgrace upon her family, she would give Garr his answer, but not now when it took all of her strength to remain standing.
On legs that felt as if they might melt out from under her, she crossed to her brother’s side. “Take me home, Garr.”
“We are destined for Broehne Castle.”
Holding back surprise that she knew she should not feel since the baron’s home was surely nearer than Stern, she said, “As you will.”
Garr nodded toward the dozen men on the distant rise. “The baron awaits you in yon meadow.”
This time, there was no suppressing her surprise. “You brought him?”
“It could not be helped.” Regret grooved his mouth. “He arrived as we were preparing to depart Stern.”
Heart thrusting against her ribs, she surveyed the other riders. Though she identified her brothers where they sat on their destriers at the fore, there was no way to know which of the others was her betrothed. However, she remembered that Baron Lavonne was told to be a large man, and there was no mistaking the proportions of the one whose destrier stood to the left of Everard’s.
“I am sorry, Gaenor. I would not have had it be this way.”
Wishing she could better conceal her emotions, she looked back at Garr.
“I will be with you,” he said and, with a tight smile, reached for her.
She laid her chill fingers in his warm hand and stepped her foot atop his in the stirrup. Unlike Sir Durand, her brother took her up in front of him to provide the comfort and safety of his arms.
As he turned his horse, she glanced over her shoulder. “I am afeared, Garr.”
“This I know.” He slid an arm around her waist and eased her back against him.
Though all of her urged her to make ready for flight, she sank into her brother who had never allowed harm to touch her—who, though she had willfully tainted the honorable name of Wulfrith, would never raise a hand to her.
And yet, he bargained you away like chattel.
Wearily, she turned aside Sir Durand’s revelation, choosing numbness over the roiling that would only pain her more.
Though tempted to close her eyes and surrender to fatigue that she might delay her acquaintance with Baron Lavonne, she knew it was the coward’s way. Thus, as Garr guided his destrier toward the riders, she firmly held her gaze to the large man beside Everard.
It was his broad shoulders that first struck her as familiar, then his fair hair lifting in the cool, morning breeze, next his determined chin. And she needed to look no nearer to know it was Sir Matthew.
What was he—?
“Gaenor?” The concern in Garr’s voice evidenced he felt the alarm surging through her.
She stared at the knight she had thought never to see again and warily mulled the reason for his presence.
She looked over her shoulder. “Baron Lavonne”—she nearly choked on the name—“which one is he?”
“He is mounted to the left of Everard.”
She thought she might die. What had she done? In secret she had met with a man who called himself Sir Matthew,
told him things she should not have, felt for him, sought him out, allowed him to kiss her, asked him to steal her away. And, thinking him lost to her, she had fled with Sir Durand without regard for what any might think of her and the two nights spent alone in a man’s company.
But then, what had Baron Lavonne done? Knowing who she was, he had deceived her, likely laughed at her ignorance, disappeared without farewell, and now reappeared wearing a wrathful countenance as if ill had only been worked upon him—this man who had struck a bargain with Garr that, if not accepted, might have resulted in Beatrix being found guilty. Then her death.
Regret and anger warred in Gaenor, but it was the latter she embraced.
Christian knew the moment she recognized him. As emotions struggled across her face until all that remained was ire—ire due her, just as it was due him—he tightened his grip on the reins and silently conceded that this was not the way to begin a marriage. If a marriage at all.
He looked closer on her as she and her brother neared and wondered if her eyes might reflect the truth of what had happened between her and Sir Durand who was conspicuously absent. Had the Wulfrith knight abandoned the woman who had risked all to be with him? Regardless, the knave would not go unpunished, no matter how far he had or had not trespassed. Had something happened between him and Gaenor?
“Baron Lavonne,” Wulfrith said as he halted his destrier before him, “there is much to discuss, but suffice it for now that I introduce my sister, Lady Gaenor Wulfrith.”
Would she reveal their previous acquaintance? If not, should he? Christian searched her eyes, but if virtue yet resided there, it was obscured by anger.
“Gaenor,” Wulfrith spoke across Christian’s silence, “your betrothed, Baron Lavonne.”
Neither did she speak. When the uncomfortable silence remained unbroken, her brother reined around. “Let us ride.”
The pace he set was no less rigorous than when they had sought to overtake Gaenor and Sir Durand. Thus, it was not two hours before they passed over Broehne’s drawbridge and Christian’s betrothed gained her first glimpse of the towering donjon where she would serve as lady for the remainder of her life. Perhaps.
