She shook her head and dropped her palms. “No. Dunstan told me to stay back, so I waited. And then I came here to you.”
For a long moment all was still, and then she heard Nicholas’s hushed voice. “You rode all the way from Wessex by yourself?”
Marion looked at him. She wanted to smile at his wide-eyed wonder, but she could not, so she simply nodded. Six pairs of de Burgh eyes looked upon her with a stunned admiration that would once have been the height of her existence. Now, their respect was bittersweet because of the cost. “I had to,” she said. “He was taken three days ago, and Walter said that Fitzhugh would have at him. They will try to break him, I know it.”
Simon leaped to his feet. “Then let us go! By faith, this Fitzhugh will know the might of Campion! Why do we dally?”
“Hold, Simon,” Geoffrey warned. “If we march on Wessex, the man could kill Dunstan, or we might end up in a long siege, destroying our brother’s castle in the process.”
“Geoffrey is right,” Reynold said, and Marion paused a minute to marvel at the sight of two brothers in accord.
“Mayhap he could ransom Dunstan,” Robin said, his normally light tone startling in his seriousness.
Marion spoke up. “No. According to Dunstan, Fitzhugh has coveted Wessex for a long time, and he will be satisfied with nothing else. He wants Dunstan dead.”
“Perhaps if we took just a few men and tried to find a way in,” Geoffrey said. The brothers were all quiet, pondering that suggestion, until the youngest of them spoke.
“I know a way in,” Nicholas piped up. “Dunstan showed me once. There is a passage.”
Eight pairs of eyes met in stunned silence.
“Let us all go,” said Robin.
“Aye!” They spoke as one, the de Burghs, for once, all in agreement. Marion shuddered in relief.
“Simon, you shall lead,” Campion said. “But I wish you to heed Geoffrey’s opinions. Take a small force with you, little enough to escape attention, but strong enough to retake the castle. Unfortunately, we know not what the situation is inside. Nicholas must go to point out the passage. The rest of you make your own choice.”
Hearing each brother voice his assent, Marion nearly wept. They would all go to Dunstan’s aid, just as she had known they would, and she fought the urge to hug each one of them gratefully. But what of herself? “I would go, too,” she said softly.
“You!” snapped Simon, in a growl so reminiscent of his elder brother that Marion nearly smiled.
“You shall stay here where you are safe,” Geoffrey said.
“This is not woman’s work,” argued Robin.
“Hmm.” Everyone quieted at the sound of Campion’s low murmur, and they all turned to look him as he rubbed his chin and regarded Marion thoughtfully. “Perhaps there is something Marion has neglected to tell us.”
Marion glanced away from that all-knowing gaze, uncertain just how they would take the news that she was not eager to impart. Somehow, she had hoped that if she told no one, the marriage between Dunstan and herself could be forgotten, as well it should be. However, Campion obviously guessed at something, and there was no point in trying to dissemble before the de Burghs. With bent head, Marion drew a deep breath and admitted the truth.
“Dunstan is my husband,” she whispered.
When she dared look up, Marion saw that they all gaped, mouths hanging open in their handsome faces until the earl spoke again. “Congratulations, my dear.”
Overcome with sudden shyness, Marion looked down at her lap. “I did not want to wed him, but he thought it best, to save me from my uncle.”
“But it was a true wedding, before a priest?” Campion asked.
Marion nodded.
“And it was consummated?”
Lifting her startled wide eyes to the earl’s, Marion blushed scarlet and nodded painfully. If he only knew of the beddings that took place before the ceremony…
The smile that slowly eased across Campion’s face made her realize just how attractive the earl was, despite his years, and where his sons had come by their own rough charm. He looked positively wicked as he rose and clapped her on the back. “Well, then, welcome to the family!”
* * *
Dunstan stared into the darkness, concentrating intently, and identified the sound with a groan. Dripping. Dripping water. It must be raining, and when it rained heavily, the dungeons flooded. Tilting his head back, he prayed for sunshine, though he would not see it where he sat, trapped in a bare stone cage little better than a hole.
Of course, he had planned to completely dig out the lower levels and rid himself of the flooding problem when he had the funds, but, like so much at Wessex, it had gone wanting for lack of monies. And now he was reaping the harvest of his delay, for he was locked in his own dungeon, a place so cold and dark and dank and fetid that he would loath use it for animals, let alone a human being.
The dripping grew louder now that Dunstan was aware of it, and he shut out the noise the only way he knew how: he closed his eyes and thought of Marion. His wife. Of kissing her, touching her and claiming her as his own. And he cursed himself for being so driven to return to Wessex that he had reined in his passion those last few days with her, instead of riding her often and well.
Now, he had only the imaginings. But Dunstan took what he could from them, dreaming of how he would pleasure her until she screamed in that high, breathless way of hers, and how she would wring him dry, as no woman ever had before. And then he thought of simply holding her, warm and soft against him, and her fragrance, like wildflowers, weaving round him. Her smile. Those dimples.
He slept.
* * *
Dunstan had lost all track of time. After Walter had tossed him in the dungeon, he had remained there, forgotten, for what seemed like a day or two, growing light-headed from the lack of food or drink. Then, finally they had come for him, dragging him before Fitzhugh—in chains, no less. He had felt like an animal, but remembering his blood, he stood tall, in his father’s image.
A small, thin man of indeterminate years, Fitzhugh preened like a peacock, trying to look distinguished in his elegant finery. He was not pleased by Dunstan’s show of dignity, and ordered Walter to beat the “de Burgh arrogance” from his hide. And so Dunstan had been clubbed, right there in his own hall, the frightened eyes of his former people peering from the shadows to watch.
When Walter struck him with a gauntleted fist, Dunstan held firm against the taste of his own blood on his lips—and the frustrated need to fight back. He took the blows to his arms and legs without flinching, too, though he wondered just how far Walter would go. A broken bone or misplaced joint could mean a long, painful death…. And then Dunstan was hit in the gut, and he doubled over, sucking air desperately into his starved lungs, unable to rise.
Finally satisfied, Fitzhugh had laughed and clapped his bony hands—and had sent Dunstan back to his black hole. That had been yesterday or the day before, Dunstan was not sure exactly, and now he lay in the dark again, his body screaming its protest. He marked the time, waiting to be dragged above for his next performance, eating the scraps of food that were tossed his way, and listening to the water creep up below.
Except right now there was another noise, a clanging that signaled the arrival of someone from above. Dunstan opened his eyes, poised, as always, to take whatever opportunity might present itself. Although chained to the wall and drained of his strength, he still had his wits about him.
“Dunstan?”
The furtive whisper brought his head up swiftly. Who was there, one of his men? Dunstan had thought them all killed, captured or sworn to Fitzhugh. A light bobbed in the darkness, and he called out softly.
“Here.”
“Dunstan! Thank God!” At the sound of that voice, Dunstan jerked away from the wall, clanking his bindings in strained disbelief. Surely, it could not be…and yet the figure that appeared before him was his brother Geoffrey. Or was it? Ever wary, Dunstan wondered if he were lost in
some hazy vision brought on by pain and deprivation, or worse, some trickery of Fitzhugh’s. But, if so, why Geoffrey?
“Geoff?”
“Dunstan! Mother of God!” Upon seeing him, Geoffrey’s face washed white in the torch’s flame, and Dunstan realized that he must look like death, lying there locked to the wall, bruised and bloody and stained with filth. Geoffrey’s shocked gasp rang out in the stony space, and then he fumbled for a key. “Hang on, brother, I have the key.”
“Geoff?”
“Aye. ‘Tis me, Dunstan,” he murmured, his features strained as he removed the shackles. Groaning with relief, Dunstan rubbed his wrists and let his brother help him to his feet, but he found standing nearly more than he could manage and swayed precariously.
“Hang on to me,” Geoffrey urged. And Dunstan did, slinging an arm around his younger brother’s wide shoulders. When had scholarly Geoffrey filled out to become strong and broad enough to carry his weight? Dunstan shook his head, as if to clear it, still uncertain whether he moved in a dream or reality.
In the low, dank corridor, they were met by others, and a whispered conference ensued. Although he did not hear all of it, Dunstan’s ears pricked up when Geoffrey said, “Let me take him back out the passage. He is in no condition—”
“Halt there, Geoff,” Dunstan broke in. Just because he was not up to his usual self, he was not about to let his intellectual brother coddle him like a babe. “This is my castle.”
“Give him a sword,” Stephen said tersely. Stephen? Surely, Dunstan was lost in some fevered vision to imagine his wastrel brother Stephen crawling about underneath Wessex! Perhaps Fitzhugh had put some herb into his food, and even now he lay still in the hole, locked in vivid imaginings, rather than standing here arguing with his young siblings….
Before Dunstan could marvel further, a weapon was thrust into his hands and he was dragged along, stumbling up the stairs into blinding light. He flinched against the brightness after long days spent in the dark, and he fell back against the wall of the buttery, blinking, until his eyes could focus. Then Geoffrey pulled him along as they rushed into the great hall.
“Fitzhugh cannot be found!” someone shouted from across the room, and several figures separated themselves from the group to run up to the solar to search. Before him, the vast space stood empty, but a few overturned tables gave testimony of some upheaval, and through the open doors, Dunstan could see the signs of battle in the bailey. Who? And why? Shaking off Geoffrey’s help, he took a step forward. By faith, Fitzhugh’s men were surrendering!
“Nicholas, you stay here with Dunstan, while I help them look for Fitzhugh,” Geoffrey said. Without waiting for reply, he took off, disappearing into the kitchens.
Nicholas? Nicholas? Was that his baby brother beside him, taking his weight? Dunstan cursed his foggy head as he stepped back to look. “Nicholas?”
“Yes, it is me, Dunstan. I remembered the passage you showed me, so we came in to retake your castle.” The boy looked up at him, young, smooth-faced and proud.
“You did well, Nicholas,” Dunstan said, his voice breaking oddly. “I fear I am a bit slow yet.”
“Simon has the opposing force well in hand,” Nicholas explained with a nod toward the doors, “but your enemy has not been found.” Nicholas’s dark eyes brightened with excitement. “Is there some place where he could hide?”
Fitzhugh, somewhere inside the castle…Dunstan stopped to think. There was an odd sort of hidey-hole in the great chamber that he had always thought of as a place to secret a lover, but the small space, more confining even than his cell, gave Dunstan the chills.
Still, a man could sneak in there during a battle and walk out later, unscathed. Dunstan lifted his head, gesturing toward the stair with a tilt of his jaw. “Up there,” he said to Nicholas. Then he moved over the rushes faster than he would ever have thought himself able, his baby brother hurrying to keep up.
Perhaps it was the hope for revenge that finally cleared his benumbed brain, pulsed renewed strength through his weakened body, or maybe it was the scent of victory. Whatever the cause, Dunstan found himself taking the stairs swiftly, hell-bent upon the great chamber.
They passed Robin in the hall, and Dunstan barely blinked, having grown accustomed to the sight of his siblings. Without a word, Robin joined them, and the three burst into the room to find it silent and still—and empty.
Dunstan did not hesitate, but walked to a large tapestry that draped one wall and, reaching up, pulled down the material with one fierce yank. Nicholas’s soft hiss of surprise sounded behind him as a wooden door, flush to the wall, was revealed.
“Come out, you bastard!” Dunstan shouted.
No noise emerged from within, so Dunstan tugged at the ring, but it held fast. Someone was inside.
“Burn him out,” Dunstan said, and Robin rushed from the room, shouting for fire. The threat must have penetrated the door, for just as Robin left, it swung open and Fitzhugh stepped out, looking positively regal in his colorful finery—and totally untouched by the events around him.
“Well, well, Wessex,” he said smoothly. Although he held his head high, Fitzhugh’s eyes darted around the room like a cornered hare’s as he took in his situation. “So, you are still standing, are you? Amazing. But for how long?” His gaze finally settled on Nicholas. “You, boy. See my way out of here and you will be well rewarded.”
While Nicholas stared at him in awed surprise, Fitzhugh moved slowly around the perimeter of the room, giving Dunstan a wide berth. “Quick, boy, take the hulking brute, so that I might make my leave,” he ordered. When Nicholas did not respond, Fitzhugh smiled slyly. “Well, obviously, you are not a threat to anyone, boy, and as for you, Wessex, I am surprised you can even keep your feet—”
With a deceptively swift movement, Fitzhugh made it to the door just as Robin filled it.
“You! Out of my way,” he snapped in frustrated anger. “Know you who I am?”
“Although we have never met, I suspect you are Fitzhugh,” Robin said, his normally bright countenance dark and somber.
“Yes. I am Fitzhugh, and I would go below. Give me an escort, good fellow, and I shall see you are well rewarded.”
“I care not for the kind of rewards you would dispense,” Robin said. Although more accustomed to merry japes than making war, he assumed a fighting stance, his feet apart, and put his hand to the hilt of his sword.
Fitzhugh’s voice rose, high and harsh. “Listen to me, fool! I am wealthier than you would ever dream. Serve me, and I shall gift you with all you could desire—gold, jewels, manors, land—whatever you will.” He was babbling now, while his eyes flew to each of them in turn. “My daughter’s hand!”
Robin snorted. “I want no part of that shrew—I have heard of her temperament.”
Fitzhugh did not even flinch at the insult, but glanced behind Robin toward freedom and licked his lips nervously. “‘Tis well-known that Wessex has nothing. Hurry, man, and let us go.”
Robin made a low noise of disagreement. “You are wrong, Fitzhugh. Dunstan has more than you ever will. You see, he has us.” Robin sent his hand in a sweeping gesture that took in Nicholas and himself.
“Us? You need feel no loyalty to Wessex, fellow. His own vassal, Walter Avery, has joined with me, as should you,” Fitzhugh argued, desperation now evident in his tone.
“Pah! I spit upon Avery. He is nothing but a boughten whore,” Robin said, in a voice more grim than Dunstan could ever have imagined from the carefree youth. “Save your breath, Fitzhugh, for you cannot purchase me. I am Robin de Burgh, and Wessex is my brother.”
Dunstan’s chest tightened as a mixture of amazement and pride swept through him, touching him more deeply than he would ever have thought possible. Fitzhugh blanched. The hand that had reached out to Robin trembled and faltered, and he looked sharply to Nicholas, as if finally seeing the resemblance between them all.
“He is my brother, too,” the boy added. “I am Nicholas de Burgh.”
“No, Robin! He is mine!” Dunstan shouted, and Robin stayed his hand, while the Wolf gave chase to the fleeing villain.
Down the darkened hallway they ran before Fitzhugh turned to fight upon the stairs. “How is your head, Wessex?” he taunted. “Can you keep your balance? ‘Tis steep and slippery here.”
Once, Dunstan would have overpowered the older man in a single blow, but now, bruised and weakened, he struggled to parry and make his way down the steps at the same time. Below, hushed voices greeted the sight of the dueling enemies, Fitzhugh richly and immaculately garbed and Dunstan dressed in a torn tunic, stained with filth and blood.
While Fitzhugh danced about, agile for his years, Dunstan stood his ground and advanced, slowly but surely. Impatient, the older man finally jumped to the floor below and ran across the tiles, but his flight was blocked by three tall, dark men, who looked suspiciously like de Burghs. Cursing, he swung back to Dunstan, fighting with renewed energy to what he knew must be his death.
He was frenzied, his blade sliding under Dunstan’s guard to slice a bloody line across the huge chest. Fitzhugh’s glee was short-lived, however, as Dunstan did not falter at the wound, but brought his sword down like a hammer. Fitzhugh fell back, his eyes wide with stunned surprise when Dunstan’s blade buried itself deep.
Drawing in great gulps of air, Dunstan stood over the body of his neighbor and felt not the sweetness of revenge—only a cold sense of justice done. Wessex was now his, and let no man dispute it. With an overwhelming yearning, he hoped that perhaps he and his people could know peace.
Vaguely, he heard Nicholas’s cheers and the shouts of admiration from his other brothers as he removed his weapon from Fitzhugh’s corpse, but the sounds dimmed to a dull roar. Lifting a hand to his bloody chest, Dunstan watched his sword fall to the tiles. Then he swayed upon his feet, suddenly too weak to stand, and crumpled to the floor after it.
Taming the Wolf Page 21
