by Tamara Leigh
Of course, once Lady Gaenor learned who was at stake, she would come willingly regardless of how it might appear to the man she had been forced to wed. At least, that was the hope of Sir Mark’s savior. If he was to do what desperately needed being done, he required Gaenor Wulfrith—now Lavonne—to keep him alive.
From the cover of the wood, he watched her husband and his men ride from sight. When all that was left was the haze stirred up by the multitude of hooves, he turned his attention to the woman before the drawbridge who was too tall to be any other than Gaenor. After a long moment, she swept around and hurried beneath the portcullis into the outer bailey.
The savior held his breath, praying the drawbridge remained lowered to accommodate villagers who had business within the castle walls.
It did not move, evidence the baron believed he had left the castle secure. And the one in the wood did not doubt it was secure, but he had not survived these past weeks that should have seen him dead a dozen times without furthering his capacity for stealth and diversion.
He felt the tug of a grim smile as he turned his attention to the beaten dirt road. He would have to bide his time to find the right opportunity to gain entrance to Broehne. It was unfortunate he did not have more time to bide.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
“Pardon, m’lady…”
Forgetting to lower her frown, Gaenor looked up from the household books that she had once more asked the grudging steward to open to her. To her surprise, the cook stood before her, his ascent of the dais—lumbering, no doubt—lost amidst her journey through column after column of freshly inked numbers.
“What is it, Cook?”
He wrinkled his long narrow nose that stood like a surprise in the middle of his fleshy face. “I would not bother ye, m’lady, but there be a problem with the cost of the vegetables you ordered from the village.”
Gaenor sat taller. “The price was agreed upon.”
“With Arnaut, aye, but he has taken ill and this other has come in his place. He says the quality of his vegetables requires more coin than what you promised Arnaut.” Cook scowled. “Says he won’t unload his cart ‘til he has had an audience with the steward.”
Whom she had sent away that she might better concentrate on the journal entries. She rose. “As I dealt with Arnaut, I shall myself set the man right.”
Behind, she heard Sir Hector step from alongside the tapestry. Though she required no escort, she would not argue it—for his sake and Christian’s.
“He is in the kitchen?” she asked as she came around the table.
With a grunt of effort, Cook descended the dais. “Nay, m’lady,” he said as she drew near. “Though he asked to come into the hall to speak to the steward, he is so foul he would sour the soup were he to pass through my kitchen. I told him to wait in the garden.”
The heat of the kitchen struck Gaenor before she set foot in it. Though it took seconds to cross to the door that let outside, moisture flecked her brow when she stepped out into a day that had advanced little more than an hour since her husband’s departure.
Settling her gaze on the man who stood with his back to her at the gate on the far side of the garden, his shabby state of dress matching his ability to sour soup, she murmured, “A very long day.”
“My lady?”
She looked over her shoulder as Sir Hector pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Cook to his domain. “I fear ‘tis going to be a very long day,” she said.
The aged knight inclined his head.
Gaenor looked back around. The villager, who demanded more coin for vegetables that were past due in the kitchen, had turned to her. There was not much of his face to be seen, as the upper half was curtained in stringy hair and the lower half covered in thick beard, but out of his shadowed face burned eyes, and they were staring wide at her as if her appearance was as unsettling as his own. But then, he had been expecting the steward.
“My lady,” he said gruffly and bowed his head.
With Sir Hector at her heels, Gaenor traversed the path and halted before the man who was, indeed, quite foul of odor. “Your name?” she asked, fighting the temptation to raise a hand to her nose.
Slowly, his chin came up, but even before his lips parted, she had her answer.
Whatever his response, she was too shocked to make sense of the single word that landed between them. She stumbled back into Sir Hector, and her reaction proved her protector’s undoing.
The man, who was not a villager at all, sprang to the side. With a flash of silver, he raised a dagger and swept it down.
The crack of bone sounding in Gaenor’s ears, she spun around, though not in time to ease the aged knight to the ground.
Breath coming fast, she dropped to her knees beside Sir Hector and touched his temple that bled a thin red line. The hilt of the dagger had been used on him, but that did not mean the damage would be any less severe than a wound that drew blood. Mayhap worse considering the struggles Beatrix had faced following her head injury.
Gaenor snapped her chin around and glared at the man who stood over her. “What have you done?”
He returned his dagger—a Wulfrith dagger—to the short scabbard on his belt. “I but take advantage of a situation you have made blessedly easy for me, Lady Gaenor.”
“Of what do you speak?”
“I requested an audience with the steward that I might gain entrance to the donjon and find my way to you, and here you are delivered to me as if I ordered it.”
She pushed to her feet. “I do not know why you are here, but you must leave.” She started for the kitchen, but he caught her arm and pulled her around. “I must needs get help for Sir Hector,” she said, straining against his hold.
He lowered his face near hers, further assailing her with his odor. “Nay, you must needs come with me. Now.”
She stepped nearer the man who stood shorter by several fingers. “If you force me to reveal you, Sir Durand, I shall. Now release me.”
He yanked her closer still. “There is not much time, so listen well. I am not here for you or myself. I am here for Beatrix.”
She drew a sharp breath, but this time hardly noticed his foul scent. “What of my sister?”
“Doubtless, the brigands are even now approaching Castle Soaring and will soon—if they have not already—breach the walls. Then Sir Robert will work his revenge on her.”
Fear shot through Gaenor. This time, would Christian’s brother succeed in killing Beatrix? Would—?
She shook her head in an attempt to shake loose the suffocating thoughts that had no cause to claim her. “You seek to work trickery on me.”
“Upon my vow,” he growled, “‘tis not trickery.”
“It is! Beatrix is safe.”
He gripped her other arm and shook her. “The brigands know D’Arci was called to Broehne. That makes Soaring vulnerable. A Lavonne through and through, Robert knows all the castle’s secrets, and he will use them to finish what he and his father began.”
Gaenor searched his face that was barely familiar beneath so much hair and grime. What he told had to be a lie. After all, he had been so intent on taking her to France that she had been forced to use trickery to escape him. She jerked at her arm, but he held fast.
“I would be a fool to trust you,” she hissed.
He cursed, then demanded, “Do you wish to save your sister or nay?”
“If she needs saving, aye, but you offer no proof.”
“There is not time!”
She blinked amidst the saliva he spat out with his words. “Tell me, else leave, Sir Durand.”
Beneath his coarse beard, his jaw convulsed, and when he spoke, his voice was so tight it seemed one more turn of it might cause it to shatter. “I claim responsibility for the word sent to your brother, Sir Abel, that revealed the location of the brigands’ camp—”
Gaenor stopped breathing.
“—and the release of Sir Mark ere Sir Robert could make an end of him.”
&
nbsp; Had Durand not maintained a grip on her, she was sure she would have had to sit down to avoid losing her balance.
“’Twas you?” Even as the question passed her lips, she knew it was so, and not because Sir Mark had told of the terrible odor that clung to his savior.
“The night you slipped away from me,” he said, his frustration so thick it could be felt, “I happened upon the brigands’ camp. I could not depart for France knowing the man who had failed to kill Beatrix might try again. Thus, I followed him camp to camp, waiting for and being denied the opportunity to put down your husband’s brother. Last eve, after I freed Sir Mark and the brigands prepared to abandon camp, one of Robert’s men whom he had sent out returned with news that D’Arci had been called to Broehne. Robert determined then that they would ride on Soaring.”
Gaenor let out her breath. “Then you speak true. But why come for me when you should be at Castle Soaring?”
He bared his teeth. “Think, Gaenor! I cannot take the brigands alone. If they are to be stopped, it will be with the aid of your husband and his men.”
Of course.
“They must be intercepted and turned toward Soaring, but my only chance of gaining their ear before my blood is spilled and Beatrix is lost is if you stand between me and your husband and brother’s wrath.”
Indeed, for the man who had first known her would not be given a chance to tell his tale. Thus, she must serve as Durand’s shield. Trying not to think on how her accompaniment would appear to Christian, though dread and worry spread through her, she said, “I will go with you.”
The sound that blew from Durand was nearer a sob of relief than a sigh. “I thank you.”
Behind, Sir Hector stirred.
Gaenor looked over her shoulder and saw his lids were yet lowered. But he would surely come to his senses soon. No sooner did she acknowledge it than Durand pushed her aside.
“If he raises the alarm ere we gain the wood, your sister is dead,” he said, “and I have not time to bind him.” It was all the warning he gave, then his booted foot struck the knight in the head.
Gaenor clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out and raising the alarm herself.
“Fear not,” Durand said as he pulled her toward the gate. “The cook will soon enough come looking for his vegetables. Just hope ‘tis not too soon.”
In the narrow alley outside the garden gate stood a handcart that held vegetables belonging to another.
“Arnaut?” she whispered.
Durand glanced around to be certain they were not watched. When the alley proved deserted, he released her arm and said, “He is bound and awaiting our return—a surly fellow, unfortunately for him.”
Meaning the villager had likely tried to fight off Durand and would bear the marks of his attempt to evade a man trained in war.
Durand whipped the canvas off the vegetables, swiftly raised the cart’s handles, and dumped the contents on the ground. “Get as tight to the front as you can.” He pointed to the cart’s bed.
Gaenor climbed onto it and, as much as she could considering her height, folded herself into the space.
The canvas dropped over her, draping her in loose darkness and filling her nostrils with the scent of earth that was an odd mix of pleasant and unpleasant.
Durand’s jarring pace made her teeth snap and, time and again, knocked her head against the boards, but the fear of being discovered by those patrolling the baileys and walls was worse, and it wasn’t until she heard the wooden wheels rumbling over the drawbridge that she drew her first conscious breath of air that was far too thin and uncomfortably warm.
“Lord, let this not be for naught,” she whispered as the cart transitioned from drawbridge to dirt road. “Let Christian hear me, believe me, act upon Durand’s tidings. Above all, keep Beatrix safe.”
It seemed an hour, though it could not have been one-quarter that, before a measure of relief was granted by their entrance into the wood and the shade thrown by the canopy of leaves.
Gaenor pushed back a corner of the canvas and gulped the clean air.
Shortly, the cart halted and tipped backward as Durand raised the handles.
“We are here.” He threw the canvas off her.
Gaenor sat up and suppressed a groan as the ache of unfolding added to the aches acquired throughout the rough passage from donjon to wood.
“Make ready to ride,” he called, striding opposite.
She felt foolish. Until that moment, she had not considered how they would intercept Christian. As Durand’s horse had been lamed during her flight with him, he must have acquired another in the weeks since. As she watched his progress over the undergrowth, she saw it was so. And the horse tethered to a tree was no simple plow horse. It was a much-prized destrier.
She climbed out of the cart and hurried after Durand. As she neared, she realized the destrier was not alone in being tied to the tree. Arnaut sat on the opposite side, arms splayed backward against the trunk, mouth filled with a gag, eyes widening as they lit upon her.
“You will let him go?” Gaenor asked.
Durand untied his horse. “Nay, though I will remove his gag that he might call for help and distract those who will soon be after us.”
It could not be long, for Cook had to have discovered Sir Hector by now.
Gaenor veered toward the villager and bent before him. “I am sorry for this, but as soon as Broehne’s guard finds you, you must tell them Castle Soaring is under attack by the brigands.”
The man’s brow puckered.
“That is where I am going—to aid my sister.”
He shook his head.
“Tell them so.”
“Gaenor!” Durand snapped as he led the destrier toward her. “Get astride now.”
She straightened and, with his aid, mounted the horse.
Durand yanked off Arnaut’s gag. “Now yell,” he said.
Arnaut did, and Durand sprang into the saddle. “Hold on to me!”
Before Gaenor could get her arms fully around him, he put heels to the horse. Clamping her elbows hard against his sides, she managed to mesh her fingers against his abdomen.
In the next moment, realization emptied bitter laughter into her mouth, but she pressed her lips to hold it in. She had been here before, with this same man, riding wildly through the wood, but that time he had been taking her to France that she might flee marriage to Christian. Now he was taking her to Christian who would—
She did not want to think about the accusations that lay ahead. Anything but that. Trying to ignore Durand’s scent, she leaned near his ear. “Where did you get the destrier?” she asked, knowing that, until they were free of the wood and making better speed, her words would not be lost to him.
“It was Robert’s, and he is most vexed.” There was satisfaction in the voice he sent over his shoulder. “I took it after I freed Sir Mark. Not only did it provide a fine horse of which I had need, but it prevented the brigands from pursuing their prisoner since they believed he was the one who stole it and there was little chance of overtaking him.”
That was why they had not searched for the Wulfrith knight. Clever Durand.
“As I saw your husband and his men ride in the direction of the caves, I assume Sir Mark made it to Broehne without ill effect.”
“He tore his stitches and was bleeding heavily, but the physician restitched his wound and says he will be fine.”
“D’Arci remains at Broehne?”
“Nay, he accompanied my husband that he might tend the old baron if the brigands are found.”
She more felt than heard Durand’s laugh. “Though Christian Lavonne will not yet have cornered the brigands, soon enough he will find his father—dead or alive, I do not know.”
Gaenor shook her head alongside his. “I do not understand.”
“The only gain to which Robert can now aspire is revenge.” Durand looked over his shoulder and met her gaze. “And in pursuing it, he has abandoned the old baron to the cave tha
t he might all the sooner reach Soaring.”
At her look of surprise, he raised his eyebrows in the manner of one who has proved a point, then turned forward again.
Though Gaenor knew it best to keep as much space between them as possible, she lowered her forehead to his shoulder and squeezed her eyes closed. She was acquainted with Christian’s brother by the ill he had wreaked, but this last cruelty was almost too much to ponder.
Robert had left his own father to die, much like she had heard tale some left their deformed newborns to the wild, unforgiving appetites of nature. There truly was evil in the world, and it was drawing nearer Beatrix.
Gaenor drew a strengthening breath and put her head back. No matter what happened, no matter what Christian thought or said when she came before him with Durand at her side, she would not regret leaving Broehne in a handcart. There had been no other way.
There were no words to name the emotion that struck Christian when he entered the cave in answer to the woman’s cries. The voice belonged to the healer as he had thought it must, but the one to whom she was linked by chain was silent and unmoving amid a mess of furs and blankets.
Wide-eyed, Helene of Tippet stared at her lord, then crumpled to the ground and began to weep.
Christian shook free of the emotion that sought to spread numbness to his every extremity and strode forward. However, it was Abel who reached her first, thrusting past Christian with such speed the scene momentarily took on the proportions of a dream.
“John?” Helene gasped as Abel hunkered down beside her. “My boy? John?”
“He is well.” Abel’s soothing tone rendered his voice almost unrecognizable. “He but requires his mother.”
Christian nearly resented the usurpation of his duty to Helene, and not a small piece of that resentment was due to being made to all the sooner face the death of his sire and the fear of what he would—or would not—feel when he did so.
Behind, he heard the others enter the cave but did not break his stride as he crossed to the crude bed that held Aldous Lavonne. He halted and clenched his hands into fists as he stared down into the scarred and still face of the man who had fathered him and, for a time perhaps, felt something near love for his youngest son.
