Arucard (Brethren Origins Book 1)

by Barbara Devlin

  “Good morrow, Lady Isolde.” Garbed in the traditional robe, he bowed. “I have come to hear thy confession, that ye might find absolution and salvation.”

  “I beg thy pardon?” The world seemed to spin beyond control, her ears rang, and she clutched the edge of the table for support, as she feared she might faint. “What have I to confess, as I am innocent of the allegations leveled against me?”

  “My child, I am told thy father shall be lenient, show compassion, and offer thee a quick death, if thou wilt but admit thy guilt before the citizens of Winchester.” The book in his grasp only highlighted the hypocrisy of his statement, given no one associated with her father’s foul deeds evaded accountability. “Declare thy sins, and I shall grant thee dispensation for thy transgressions.”

  “I am not thy child, and if thou dost conspire with my father, thou art not without crimes against Our Lord.” Drawing herself up with noble refinement, she stared down her nose. “Hear me well. I have met pious men, and thou art not one. If my father intends to deflect blame for his actions, he will not do so with my assistance. And while he may take my life, the truth of his involvement remains very much alive, and he will atone for his misdeeds in this world or the next.”

  With a scowl, the bishop gestured with his hand. “May the Almighty have mercy on thee.”

  “No.” She clenched her fists and stood proud. “May God have mercy on thee, as thou wilt, no doubt, need it.”

  It was not until the so-called religious man exited that she faltered, as the pain of her wounds weakened her. And then voices echoed from the drain. Hugging the corner, she bent and laughed, as her father cursed her.

  “Then let her swing, if she is so intent,” he yelled. “I will be glad to be rid of her.”

  The revelation that her father desired her death should have hurt her, but she suspected he would kill her, with or without a confession. Instead, his hatred did naught but kindle her longing for Arucard. Returning to the window, she conjured her husband’s image, fierce in battle against young de Cadby. If possible, her knight would come for her—she would believe that until she drew her last breath.

  And so she braided her hair and tugged on her leather calf boots. Just as she tied the lace, Juraj de Mravec appeared, along with a compliment of soldiers. “Lady Isolde, it is time.”

  #

  With her wrists bound in front of her, and a gag tied about her head, Isolde stood proud and strong on the gallows. And while on the outside she portrayed an image of calm, inside she screamed her husband’s name. Disgusted, she glared at the crowd that had gathered to see her executed for crimes she did not commit.

  “Good citizens of Winchester, thou hast been wronged by my own kin.” Father should have been a thespian, as he belonged on a stage, and his ability to fool the masses impressed her. With a hand pressed to his chest, he sighed. “Would that I had known the evil she would mete upon thee, with her husband, the earl of Sussex, as I might have prevented it.”

  The throng hissed.

  “But I will no longer be silent on the evil all but sanctioned by the Crown.” Her father strolled to one end of the platform. “Thou hast been abandoned by he who hath been tasked with thy protection. Thou hast been betrayed. No one defends thee.”

  The crowd jeered and pelted Isolde with rotting refuse. Yet she persisted, refusing to embarrass herself with a public display of terror, as they craved that.

  “I have failed ye.” Father sobbed. “I should offer myself on the block for thy judgment.”

  The people composed a malevolent chorale.

  “Nay.”

  “Thou art benevolent.”

  “Thou art honorable.”

  “We will follow thee.”

  How smoothly he lured them, feeding their desires and fears, and she pitied them when she should have hated them.

  “Alas, I am old and feeble, though my mind is sharp.” He had the poor, unsuspecting dupes in his grasp, and she admired his persuasive skills. “Yet my son is young and robust. If thou wilt but swear allegiance to the same, William would lead thee into prosperity and return thy stolen lands and legacy.”

  A piercing roar demonstrated the flock’s assent, and a tear coursed Isolde’s cheek, as the horror played out before her.

  “Then let us punish the traitor.” In that instant, Father cast her a vicious scowl. “As she hath earned her just reward.”

  The escort shoved her forward, and the noose slapped her face. The rush of her breath filled her ears, and her heart pounded, as a soldier slipped the rope about her neck.

  Then a driverless wagon charged into the square, crashing into various merchant carts, and a wave of panic struck the multitude of subjects assembled to witness her death. Screams reverberated, and de Mravec scrambled to the fore.

  “Protect the earl.” The eloquent villain wrenched a guard. “Surround Lord Rochester.”

  Unattended, Isolde flinched, when an unknown attacker swept her from the platform and threw her to a hooded figure. Quick as a flash, the mysterious assailant yanked the gag from her mouth and lifted his head.

  “Aeduuard.” She rejoiced, and then he grabbed her bound wrists, and they fled. “Whither is Arucard?”

  “Hurry, my lady.” Signaling his friends, he veered toward an alley but pulled her left to avoid a mountain of casks. “We must reach the main gate before thy father’s men capture us.”

  Together, they bolted down a side street and charged an unfortunate peddler, who shouted a warning. Soon the guard sounded the alarm, and thunderous hoofbeats declared their pursuit. They dashed into the front of a store and exited the rear, but they confronted her father’s men at every turn. At one point, de Cadby ducked into a small tavern, until the soldiers passed, and then he retraced their steps and navigated another passage. When two guards challenged them, Aeduuard kicked an enemy into an applecart and then struck the other with a fist.

  A slew of townspeople swamped the thoroughfares, and some recognized her. But the sheer confusion provided shelter, as she disappeared into the throng as quickly as she was identified. And all the while she sought Arucard, yet he remained absent.

  As they negotiated a maze of lanes, she lost her direction, but her liberator pushed her faster and faster. Nauseated, as her lungs burned for air, she huffed and puffed but refused to yield. Her pulse raced, and at times she thought she might faint, but she launched herself forward and swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat.

  In what seemed as several hours, but was in reality only a few minutes, Isolde clung to her rescuer, as they winded and wended their way through the town, with Father’s guards in their wake. At last, the decorated egress loomed, and Aeduuard waved a piece of red cloth. With the troops nipping at her heels, she tasted freedom and permitted herself a glimmer of hope.

  The weighty wooden panels, a very real obstacle to her liberation, opened and spread wide before her, and Isolde ran straight into a royal patrol. “No.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Dressed in the signature black garb of his trade, including the menacing hood, the largest executioner Isolde had ever seen heeled his horse, advanced on her even as she retreated, bent, and scooped her up in one fail swoop. Sitting astride in the lap of a creature every bit as imposing as her husband, she struck his chest with her bound fists. “Brute.” Then she glanced at the King’s guard and helmeted knights in impressive armor. “Prithee, good sirrah. Sir Arucard is innocent of the baseless charges levied against him, and thou cannot condemn him without a trial. If thou wilt permit me to plead my true and righteous cause before the Crown, I would—”

  “His Majesty is aware of the extent of his servant’s involvement in the crimes against the Realm and has taken swift and appropriate action.” To her father and de Mravec, who had pushed to the front of the crowd, he said, “We will take the culpable parties into custody, and deliver unto them their just punishment.” Without hesitation, the guard directed the soldiers, who surrounded her would-be rescuers, and then addres
sed the executioner with a nod. “Deal with her.”

  “Wait. Pray, do not harm my people, as they only wanted to help me.” Desperate, she peered from side to side, searching for the escape that evaded her. It was in that moment she feared the end of her life, not because she dreaded death but because never again would she look on Arucard’s face. That exceptional understanding was enough to send terror into her heart, which she had ruthlessly fortified, so she inhaled a calming gulp of air and resolved to meet her fate on her terms. Locating de Cadby, she mustered a smile. “Thank ye, for trying to save me. And if thou dost not think me ungrateful, I would ask a favor. If thou dost see him, tell my lord Arucard that I love him, and with my last breath his name shall pass my lips.”

  “My lady.” Young Aeduuard opened his mouth, gritted his teeth, and then huffed in apparent frustration. “Believe me, Sir Arucard hears thy plea.”

  The man who would dispatch her to her maker stretched an arm about her belly, gripped her hip, which mercifully avoided her injuries, and held her tight, as his mount broke into a gallop, taking her from her friends and the possibility of the prayed-for reprieve. With the troops in their wake, they coursed the lane to the outlying and sparsely populated areas of Winchester, whither she surmised he would do the deed.

  When her captor discovered her attempting to free her wrists, which had rendered her flesh raw and bloody, he drew rein. As he produced a small dagger, she suspected she had hastened her demise, and so she prepared herself. After a final survey of the surrounding countryside, Isolde focused on the clear cerulean sky and commenced her farewell. “Arucard, I love thee. Arucard. Arucard—”

  “Honey flower, I love thee, too.”

  The cherished declaration had come to her once, in a dream. It had blanketed her in soothing heat. But in that instant she imagined naught, as he cut the ties that bound her. In shock, she shrieked and gazed at the executioner. Grasping his shoulders, she met his stare, and she would know his blue eyes anywhere. “Arucard.”

  “Easy, Isolde.” Wrenching the heavy mask that shrouded his head, she yanked and pulled. “Woman, wilt thou send us tumbling to the ground, whither we might break our necks?”

  “Take off thy disguise.” While he untied the laces, she twisted, situated her legs at either side of his hips, and scooted ever closer. When he revealed the familiar visage she so treasured, she sobbed in relief, framed his cheeks, and kissed him.

  Even though the guard had joined them, she refused to relinquish her knight. It had been too long since she tasted her husband, and she savored the warmth of his flesh, the reassuring strength of his embrace, and the spicy scent that was uniquely his, as it all but surrounded her.

  “Isolde, let go, as we must ride, and I have a fresh horse for thee.” As Arucard attempted to loosen her grip, she fought him. “Pray, we must return to Chichester, as the King’s men march on Winchester to confront thy father, and I would protect thee, yet I expect no confidence, given I have failed ye so miserably.”

  “How hast thou failed me, and wherefore didst thou not reveal thyself?” Every time he tried to break free, she shifted and gained a better position. “I am alive and in thy arms, whither I belong, and whither I shall stay. Tell me how thou hast foundered?”

  “Pray, I could not betray my identity so close to town, as thy father’s spies are everywhere. And never should I have parted from thee, as thou didst beg me not to leave thee, and thy father took thee whilst I was away, thus I am to blame for thy suffering.” At last, he must have realized the futility of his endeavor, signaled by a sigh of exasperation she knew well, as he tucked his cloak about her, draped a blanket over her legs, cupped her bottom, and cradled her head. “Canst thou ever forgive me?”

  “But thou didst come for me, as thou didst promise.” Burying her face in his leather tunic, she yawned as the bone-wearying exhaustion took its toll, yet she rejoiced. “And if thou wilt but swear thou wilt keep me at thy side for the remains of thy days, thou art pardoned of thy unfounded transgression.”

  As blissful sleep beckoned, he proclaimed, “By my troth, thou wilt never be separated from me again.”

  #

  The journey to Chichester Castle seemed never-ending, as Arucard, with Isolde tucked safe in his lap, drove his stallion harder and faster than ever before. Only once would he stop to relieve himself and doff the leather tunic, that he might warm his wife with his body. To his relief, she never stirred, not even when he handed her to Demetrius. It was then he glimpsed the bloodstained chemise, torn and tattered, as he wrapped her in a borrowed blanket, regained his saddle, and claimed her from his friend.

  In a familiar formation, the Brethren of the Coast rode, constructing a protective barrier about Isolde, which each Nautionnier knight would defend to his death. Whereas on previous occasions they often engaged in spirited discourse, that day they remained silent, and Arucard embraced the silence.

  The sun sat low on the horizon when he broke from the King’s guard, along with the Brethren, and cut through the meadow of rolling hills. As the Nautionnier knights charged the last embankment, a familiar and welcoming silhouette, precious because it was whither he had first made love to his bride, came into view, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanks.

  At the west bank of the moat, Arucard cupped his mouth. “Thither, ho.”

  “Whither thou dost go?” The call came from the outer gatehouse.

  “So go I,” Arucard replied. The simple phrase, stark in its clarity as it symbolized the depth of their union, had been Isolde’s idea.

  In what seemed an eternity, the drawbridge lowered, and he navigated to the tiny island. As per his commands, the secondary traverse descended only after the first was raised. When he rode into the courtyard, Margery and Pellier emerged.

  “Bring thy medicines, as well as the physic, to my chambers.” With Isolde in his clutch, he slid from the saddle and carried her into the castle. In seconds, he ran up the stairs and swept her into the solar, just as she woke.

  “My lord, we art home.” A feminine smile graced her lips, as she gazed at him. But soon he wished she had remained blissfully unaware of her surroundings, as Margery attempted to remove the chemise, which had dried and stuck to the wounds on his wife’s back.

  Initially, the steward tried to peel off the fabric, as Arucard sat on the bench in the solar, with Isolde facing him and astride in his lap. Resting her chin on his shoulder, his valiant bride flinched and tried but failed to stifle her cries of agony, but he felt every one as a mortal blow, and he suffered each successive whimper as a stain on his heart and mind. At last, mercifully, she fainted and fell limp in his hold.

  “Mayhap we should wet the material.” Wiping her tears, Margery summoned the servants, who prepared the ancere for Isolde’s bath. “Ease her into the water, my lord. But thou must be careful to support her.”

  “Do what must needs.” Kneeling at one end of the tub, he braced Isolde beneath her arms and kissed her, when her head rolled to the side. “Perchance the physic should assist thee.”

  “Nay, my lord.” The steward frowned. “I have nursed my lady since she was but a child. Trust my skills, as she will heal.”

  Little by little, Margery inched the garment from Isolde’s injuries, and then the steward washed away the grime and blood, revealing a foul sight he would never forget, as he almost vomited to contemplate what his wife endured. Words could not describe the evidence of the earl’s barbarity, and neither could they adequately encompass the depth of Arucard’s rage.

  “Oh, my lady.” At that moment, Margery pressed a clenched fist to her mouth and sniffed. “Look what her father hath wrought upon her.”

  “Prithee, finish thy work.” It began then—the lust for revenge. The festering hatred. In opposition to the gentle purity of his wife, a malevolent sickness infested his senses. Unfurling slow and steady, as the velvety petals of a delicate spring rose, a foreign but insatiable hunger grew in his belly and spread, investing every fiber of his being until he c
ould taste the repulsive malignance. Given his faith and his oath, he should have repressed such dark inclinations, but he resisted not. Instead, he reveled in the bitterness. As an old friend, he welcomed the plague on his soul. He embraced the malice. Despite his long held beliefs, he would violate his convictions and avenge Isolde.

  “My lord, I am done.” With a strange expression, Margery shook him. “If thou wilt set Lady Isolde on the bed, on her belly, I can treat her.”

  Lost in a haze of confusion, Arucard blinked and assessed the situation, as he would not risk rousing his wife. “Summon Demetrius.”

  “Aye, sir.” Margery strolled into the hall but returned minutes later.

  “How can I help thee?” Demetrius glanced at Isolde’s condition, compressed his lips, and swallowed hard. “By God’s bones, Arucard. How could any man visit such violence on a woman, much less his daughter?”

  That was a question Arucard no longer asked, as thither was no adequate answer.

  “Take her feet, brother.” Arucard stood upright, lifting her with him, and she moaned, as Margery dried his wife with a towel. “Have care,” he whispered, “as I would not wake her.”

  “Of course,” Demetrius replied in a low voice.

  Together, they conveyed Isolde to the bed, and with caution they turned her facedown and lowered her to the mattress. Margery pulled a sheet to Isolde’s hips. After situating a chair, the steward began the difficult task of smoothing salve to his wife’s back.

  “This will require some time, my lord.” Margery began her work at the left shoulder. “Mayhap thou might use the boar’s hair brush to remove the tangles from thy wife’s locks, as they will dry faster, and I will braid them.”

  “Arucard, if thou dost need me, I will be in the great hall.” Shuffling his feet, Demetrius gazed at Isolde and rubbed his neck. “I am more sorry than I can say, as she is a very fine, kind-hearted lady.”

  “Thank ye, brother.” On the outside, all appeared calm as Arucard retrieved Isolde’s simple appurtenance, which he had seen her use on countless nights, before they retired. But inside a tempest of unutterable contempt waged war for his soul, and Lord Rochester would rue Arucard’s wrath. Yet he perched on the opposite side and drew the brush through Isolde’s hair, in slow and repetitive movements. The simple occupation should have soothed his ire, but it only fueled it.