by Tamara Leigh
She put her hand in his and he lifted her onto his destrier. As she touched back against him, she longed to sink into this man who, even if he did not return her love, felt enough for her that he did not relegate her to the rear of his saddle. Regardless of what he determined about her and Durand, she was precious to Christian to some degree, whereas…
It struck her that, even had Durand loved her in return, his feelings would never come near whatever her husband felt for her.
Looking to the knight who loved Beatrix, she was relieved that, as Christian had returned his sword to its scabbard, so had he. Sitting the saddle with a restlessness that bespoke impatience, he stared at them.
“Sir Abel!” Christian called. “D’Arci!”
Gaenor’s brother and the physician broke from the others, and Christian turned his mount sideways to receive them.
The steely gaze Abel landed to Gaenor as he reined in told that Christian was not the only one who believed ill of her, but she did not look away. No matter how things might appear, she was redeemed.
“Our plans have changed.” Christian looked to D’Arci. “Though I would have you escort my father and the healer to Broehne, I cannot ask it of you.”
The physician glanced at Gaenor. “I do not understand.”
“’Twould seem Durand enlisted my wife to bring word to us that the brigands have set a course for Castle Soaring—may even now be within its walls.”
D’Arci paled and Abel cursed.
“Let us converse with Durand that we might ride on Soaring,” Christian said and urged his destrier forward.
Though Gaenor tried to maintain space between herself and her husband, she was forced back against his chain mail-clad chest.
Moments later, the two men with whom she’d had relations faced one another, one wafting an odor so deep it nearly burned the eyes, the other wafting a jealousy so wide it threatened to swallow them whole. Aware that she was all that stood between them and the swing of their swords, Gaenor sent up a prayer that reason would prevail.
“Baron Lavonne,” Durand said with an almost imperceptible lowering of his chin that held his eyes firm to the man at Gaenor’s back.
“If all you have related to my wife is true,” Christian said, foregoing the formality of acknowledgment, “then the sooner we ride, the sooner my vassal’s wife may be delivered from harm.”
Christian’s emphasis on “wife” caused the knight’s gaze to darken as he looked between Christian, Abel, and D’Arci. “I am no coward,” he said, “but neither am I so fool to rashly seek out those who wish me dead. I have good reason for placing myself at your mercy, and that reason is Lady Beatrix.”
“Another man’s wife,” D’Arci snarled.
Gaenor knew Durand would not welcome her pity, but still she felt it for this man who faced not only the husband of the woman he loved and could never have, but the husband and brother of the woman whose virtue he had claimed.
Durand inclined his head, more perceptibly this time. “God willing, still she is your wife. Unfortunately, much depends on how much time you waste discussing the matter.”
He was right. At this very moment—
Gaenor whipped her chin around and landed her gaze upon her husband. “Enough posturing. We must ride.”
Light flared in Christian’s eyes, but as he stared at her, it dimmed. “You will return to Broehne with my father and—”
“Nay!” Something had been building in Gaenor of which she was only vaguely aware until that moment. “I did not risk all, especially your good opinion of me, that I might skulk back to the castle. Like it or nay, I will accompany you to Soaring.” She looked to her brother. “And neither will you gainsay me, Abel.”
Of course, neither had to gainsay her. They had but to pass her to a man-at-arms who would return her to Broehne—but not without a fight. And, it seemed, both men realized this, for the order was not forthcoming.
“Very well,” Christian said, “but you will do as told.”
Perhaps she would. Perhaps she would not. Much depended on what lay ahead. If they believed she would simply stand by when she could aid her sister, they did not know the woman she was becoming.
She raised her eyebrows. “And now can we ride?”
Christian’s jaw tensed, and she knew he wanted to demand her submission, but it would be a waste of yet more time.
Within minutes, the party was organized, a small escort sent to Broehne to deliver Aldous and the healer to safety, and the larger number of knights and men-at-arms spurring toward Soaring.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Gaenor was only as yielding in her husband’s arms as the fierce ride forced her to be. And Christian knew regret time and again as the sun lowered and the leagues passed too slowly though the horses could give no more.
What have I done? What has my jealousy wrought? Will she forgive me as she did when I believed she clung to Durand’s missive?
He glanced at the bedraggled knight where he rode alongside Abel. All this time, the man had been on the barony of Abingdale and, it seemed, had made himself the unlikeliest of allies. All for love of Beatrix D’Arci, not Gaenor, though it had appeared—
Aye, this day it looked to all that Gaenor betrayed, but I should have listened ere believing what ought not to be believed of her. And what if the time wasted on bringing me around proves the difference between saving her sister and not?
The terrible thoughts crowded Christian though he repeatedly turned from them to how he must make use of the skills taught him by the Wulfriths if he was to put an end to the terror his half-brother wreaked on Abingdale.
Think death, Abel had commanded. Feel death. Breathe death. Embrace death. And yet—
If he did not, how many more lives would be ravaged and lost to Robert’s misbegotten revenge?
Christian gripped the reins tighter. He must not waver, must remember he was no longer of the class of men who prayed, must now and forever claim his place among those who fought.
When Castle Soaring came into view, it looked as it always did. But that was hardly telling, especially as night had nearly overtaken day. More telling were the four riders who came out of the wood to the right of the castle. They were expected, for D’Arci favored night patrols, especially when he was absent from the castle, but that did not mean these men were to be trusted.
As Christian and his party slowed and drew weapons, Gaenor’s head snapped around. “They are Robert’s?”
Sword to hand, Christian said, “I do not believe so, but we shall know soon enough.”
A moment later, D’Arci shouted, “They are mine,” and spurred forward.
“What does it mean?” Gaenor asked.
“It seems all is well—that the walls have not been breached.” For the first time since he had taken her up in front of him, Christian felt her relax.
“Thank you, Lord,” she said so softly he nearly missed the words.
As Christian and his party assembled before the castle, D’Arci gave the order to lower the drawbridge. With a labored creak and groan and clank, the chains let out. However, as the thickly bound wooden planks began their journey toward the ground, the thanks that Gaenor had offered up were dashed by shouts and cries from within the walls.
“My lord!” a man-at-arms bellowed from atop the gatehouse. “The donjon is taken!”
As D’Arci, Abel, and Durand roared and cursed, Christian ground his jaws. Somehow, the brigands had, indeed, breached the walls, meaning it could be too late for Beatrix.
“How?” Gaenor demanded.
He met the frantic gaze she cast over her shoulder. “Likely, they came through the postern gate.” Though it was surely well defended, it was the best explanation for the sudden turn of events.
“And what of my sister?”
Christian set his jaw. “She is the reason we are here, Gaenor. We will bring her out.”
“Alive?”
He drew a slow, deep breath. “Aye, alive.” Lord, make not a lie of my words. Before
Gaenor asked more questions that could not yet be answered, he turned to D’Arci. “Two of your night guard shall remain outside the walls with my lady wife until we know the extent of the breach.”
“Nay!” Gaenor protested. “My sister is in there.”
This was a battle of wills she could not be allowed to win. As his vassal motioned his men forward to receive Gaenor, Christian said, “The sooner we are assured of your safety, the sooner we may go to your sister’s aid.”
He felt more than saw her resentment, but she offered no further argument and turned forward again as D’Arci’s men drew alongside.
“When all this is done,” Christian said in her ear, “I will right what I have wronged and give you cause to smile again. This I vow. Until then, think on forgiving me.”
Though Gaenor was not exactly sure what he meant, she found hope in that moment. Scraping her teeth across her bottom lip, she once more looked over her shoulder.
He reached up and brushed a thumb across her ill-treated lip. “God willing, it will be over anon.”
She stared, longing to believe this would soon be in the past and all would end well for Christian and her. However, she was too painfully aware of the wounds dealt this day—more, of the wounds that might yet be dealt.
Christian lifted her and passed her to the nearest man-at-arms. Before her guard could settle her sideways before him, she threw a leg over and straddled the horse. When she returned her gaze to her husband, there was a slight curve to his mouth and she sensed there was something he wanted to say, but he did not. Just as she did not.
And so you with all your righteous anger will let him go without a word, knowing it might be the last word he never hears from you…
The drawbridge landed heavily, causing a wave of dust to rise around them.
“Christian!” she called as he and the others surged across the drawbridge. “I do love you!”
If he heard, she could not know, but she prayed he did and that her declaration would aid in returning him to her.
“Let us take cover,” the man at her back said to his companion and turned his horse toward the wood.
Gaenor peered around him and watched as the portcullis was lowered against any who might try to cross the drawbridge uninvited. When it touched down, she closed her eyes and began to pray.
The donjon was, indeed, taken, though not by breach of the postern gate. The only explanation, it seemed, was that someone had let in the brigands. Still, if it was true their numbers were as great as Sir Durand told, it was incomprehensible that so many had passed through the outer and inner baileys without raising an alarm well before they reached the donjon.
“Again!” Christian shouted, and he and the others who hefted the battering ram once more charged.
The massive doors that had been barred against them groaned and bowed inward but held.
As Christian and D’Arci and his men drew back along the landing, the force of wood on wood arose from the west side of the donjon where Abel and Durand and a dozen others attempted to gain entrance through the door that let into the kitchens.
For the third time, Christian gave the command to charge and, a moment later, the doors burst inward.
Christian and his men abandoned the battering ram, drew swords, and surged into the great hall where they were met by the eerie still of death that has come and gone.
The links of their armor settling, they surveyed the room and picked out those who had fallen to the brigands—the porter, a female servant, and three men-at-arms, all of whom were so viciously bloodied that if any had breath left in them, it would soon be their last.
Robert had timed the attack well, he and his men having entered the donjon before the supper hour that would otherwise have seen the brigands outnumbered by those of the guard and household who gathered at table.
But where had the brigands taken Beatrix and the rest of the servants? As they had barricaded themselves in the donjon, the likeliest choice was abovestairs since the winding stair made it easier to secure and defend than the cellar. The kitchen was also a possibility, but unlikely. After all, there could be no doubt Abel and his men would soon take down the door that stood between the garden and the cook’s domain.
Still, Christian had learned that nothing was certain when faced with an enemy, and so he turned to divide his men. It was then a crash and the clamor of booted feet sounded from the direction of the kitchen.
When those led by Abel and Durand burst upon the hall, they were met by the steel of their allies who immediately eased their battle-ready stances.
“Three dead in the kitchen,” Abel growled, sweeping his gaze over the hall. “No brigands.”
“Take your men and search the cellar,” Christian ordered. “We will search abovestairs.”
As he led his men opposite, he saw that D’Arci was already upon the stairs. It was foolhardy considering what might await him around the first turn, but it was his wife whose life was in peril and Christian knew that neither would he have waited if Gaenor was in danger—Gaenor who, in spite of his jealousy and suspicion, had called to him as he had ridden away from her. If anything could sustain him through the looming confrontation with Robert, it would be the words she had spoken.
And God, she would say.
And God, he would agree, even though his conviction would lack the strength of hers.
Past the first turn of the stairs and just down from the landing, Christian and his men found D’Arci bent over a knight, the fallen man’s blood smearing the stone steps, his hand turned around his sword hilt.
“Canute!” D’Arci turned the man over.
It was the weathered old knight who had been the physician’s companion since before Christian had become acquainted with and indebted to D’Arci.
“Lord!” D’Arci beseeched and pressed a hand over the wound that opened his man’s abdomen.
Sir Canute’s lids lifted beneath eyebrows so silver that the light of the torch overhead winked through them. “Sir Robert,” he huffed, “has taken your lady wife.”
“Abovestairs?”
“Nay.”
“Where?”
The knight’s eyes closed.
D’Arci shook him.
Canute swallowed loudly but did not lift his lids again. “One moment, all was quiet,” he murmured, “the next, they were in the hall. But they did not come through the great doors, nor from the kitchens.” He coughed. “They appeared as if…from the bowels of hell.”
“The cellar,” Christian snarled.
D’Arci looked around. “I know of no passageway that leads outside the walls.”
“Nor do I”—Christian swung away—“but if there is one, my father would have revealed it to Robert.” And Robert would have had time to explore and exploit it during the years he served at Soaring previous to the attempt on Beatrix’s life that had seen him imprisoned.
As Christian pushed past his men, he heard D’Arci direct a man-at-arms to remain with Sir Canute, then his vassal and the others were at his back.
Swords going before them, chain mail ringing, they shot across the hall and down the dimly lit northern corridor. Around a corner, they nearly collided with one of the men-at-arms sent to search out the cellar with Sir Abel.
“My lord!” The man jumped back and nodded over his shoulder at the doorway that glowed with a light from within the cellar. “Sir Abel sent me to inform you that a passageway has been discovered. He and the others have gone into it.”
Christian thrust past him and narrowly avoided treading upon a servant whose head lay in a pool of blood let from his throat.
Grinding his teeth against an anger so dark it threatened to eclipse reason, he crossed the cellar threshold. As he descended the steps, he recalled that the last time he had been in a cellar was at Wulfen Castle when Everard had taught him to use the senses beyond sight to defeat darkness and the enemies who lurked there.
The cellar, lit by a single torch, appeared empty save for the barrels and
shelves of food and household supplies it boasted in abundance. But out of the farthest corner came the sound of struggle, a pale echo of men’s cries and grunts and the meeting of steel. Abel and his men were upon the brigands, and Gaenor’s sister was likely in their midst.
D’Arci wrenched the torch from its sconce and lunged across the cellar. Christian and the others followed to where a passageway that had been cut through the donjon’s foundation gaped dim beyond overturned shelves that had spilled their supplies on the earthen floor once concealment was no longer necessary.
So treacherously narrow and squat was the tunnel that it was impossible for even those of lesser stature than Christian to negotiate it with ease or speed. Fortunately, it grew in width and height and, at the point where Christian guessed they were outside Soaring’s outer walls, he was able to draw alongside D’Arci and run with him.
Though the sound of men engaged in battle continued to reach them, it remained distant as if Abel and Durand and their party were beating back the brigands. It was thus for several turns of the tunnel, but at last the din became the distinct clash of swords and shouts of men. And Christian knew what must be done as Everard had impressed upon him at Wulfen.
Ahead of the next turn, he gripped his vassal’s arm and forced him to a halt, causing those behind to grunt and curse as they checked their own progress.
D’Arci came around so suddenly and violently, Christian thought it possible that, had he not arrested the man’s sword arm, he might have been gutted.
“Put out the torch,” he rasped. “Abel and Durand are expecting us, but not the brigands.”
Shortly, guided by the din and vague glow of torches that had surely been carried by those who had taken Gaenor’s sister, they came around the last turn into a low-ceilinged cave.
Had Christian any reason to entertain humor, he might have laughed at his half-brother’s fondness for the dens of animals.
By the light of a torch that lay on the ground, its writhing flame revealing those who fought at the mouth of the cave beyond a half dozen who had fallen to the sword, Christian and his men streamed forward and joined the fray.
