Tall, Dark, and Medieval

by Barbara Devlin

  Killing indiscriminately, he maimed, beheaded, impaled, and slaughtered untold numbers, ignoring their cries for mercy, as no one had spared his wife. Whereas before he always struggled with guilt when taking a life, in those miserable hours he suffered no such compunction and, therefore, tempered not his rage.

  Given no one had pardoned her, he would extend no reprieve. Every enemy combatant he struck down he counted as right and good retribution for Isolde, as none of them had defended her, and no matter how many souls he claimed it was not enough. It would never be enough. Not until he came face to face with the person responsible for her suffering—the earl of Rochester.

  “Tyreswelle.” Arucard urged his destrier into a gallop. “Thou art mine.”

  Metal clashed with metal, as they waged war amid the stench of damp earth mixed with blood, and sunlight flickered on the flat of the blades, but it was no contest, given the villain posed no real threat to a man unafraid of death. With a single swing of his sword, Arucard knocked Isolde’s father from his horse. As Arucard could have predicted, the pathetic bastard surrendered without so much as a single challenge.

  “I yield.” The earl tossed down his weapon and splayed his palms. “And I demand thee deliver me unto His Majesty.”

  “Thou art in no position to make demands.” Arucard leaped from his saddle and assumed a provocative stance. “Now pick up thy sword.”

  “Nay.” The bastard spat at Arucard’s feet. “I am the earl of Rochester, Reinfrid de Tyreswelle, and head of one of England’s oldest noble families. Whither art thou from, and who art thy connections, de Villiers?”

  “The Sovereign is my connection.” Arucard lowered his chin and bared his teeth. “And I ride straight from hell to claim recompense for thy daughter.” Then he lunged.

  “Sir Arucard, wait.” Briarus drove his horse between Arucard and his prey. “Prithee, good sirrah. Remember, His Majesty commands we take the earl alive.”

  “Am I not allowed to touch him? Am I granted no measure of retribution?” Gripping the hilt of his sword, he threw off his helmet. “What of his treachery? And what of de Mravec? Will the Crown pardon their evil deeds? Thither is no justice in this land?”

  “While I understand thy anger, and I share thy views, I must obey the King’s orders.” The sergeant drew a section of rope from his sack and tossed it to Arucard. “If thou wilt bind his wrists, that I may transport Rochester to His Majesty’s encampment.”

  “I told thee.” With a sneer, the earl presented his arms. “We art a civilized people, Sir Arucard. And I am far too valuable to kill like some commoner.”

  It would have been so easy to slide the blade of his sword into the small indention at the base of his father-in-law’s neck. With a simple twist and tug, he could separate Rochester’s head from his body, and never again could the villain harm Isolde. That was Arucard’s goal, to protect his wife from the one person who should have been her most fervent champion.

  “Mayhap that is true.” With purpose, Arucard wound one end of the twine and tied it tight, until the earl flinched. “But if thou dost come near thy daughter again, I will slit thy noble throat.” Then he tossed the rope to Briarus.

  “Thank ye.” The guard dipped his chin. “As the battle is won, His Majesty requests thy presence in his tent.” Clucking his tongue, Briarus snickered. “And I shall join thee anon, as the earl shall walk to camp.”

  With Rochester’s complaints echoing above the din of conflict, Arucard retrieved his helmet, jumped to the saddle of his stallion, and steered for the northern territory. Along the way, he counted his friends and sighed with relief, as the Brethren remained bloody but unscathed. As his mount soared up the embankment, he thought of Isolde, his lady, his love.

  Given her father had been arrested but had cheated the Dark Angel, Arucard wondered what to tell her. As long as the earl lived, he would present a very real danger to her. Somehow, Arucard needed to scare the man. That was his primary goal when he entered the King’s tent.

  But rage surged anew when he discovered Juraj de Mravec kneeling before the Crown. Without hesitation, Arucard lunged, grabbed de Mravec by the neck, and struck him. As the co-conspirator slumped on the ground, Arucard drew his sword and leveled the pointed end just beneath the man’s chin. “Say thy prayers.”

  “Sir Arucard, we demand thee halt thy attack.” Waving, His Majesty summoned his guards, and Arucard found himself grossly outnumbered, but it mattered not. When the Sovereign rested a hand to Arucard’s shoulder, he lowered his weapon. “We understand thy anger, but we cannot permit thee to kill our appointed servant when he hath performed to our expectations.”

  In that moment, naught made sense.

  Confused, Arucard stumbled back and landed in a fortuitously placed chair. Leaning forward, with his elbows propped on his thighs, he stared at the intricate pattern on the rug and struggled to breathe. “Forgive me, Majesty, but de Mravec schemed with the earl to undermine thy authority and seize control of Winchester.”

  “And so he was directed.” The King perched on his temporary throne. “The previous earl of Sussex initiated the original plan with an unknown collaborator who eluded our attempts at discovery. We dispatched our agent to investigate, befriend, and collude with the mysterious conniver.”

  “So he is to go free, along with de Tyreswelle?” Huffing in frustration, Arucard stood and paced. “Is no one to pay for their crimes against the Crown, if not my wife? Does the rule of law mean naught in this country?”

  Rubbing his jaw, de Mravec scrambled to his feet. “Arucard—”

  “Sir Arucard to thee, as we art not now nor shall we ever be friends.” If not for the soldiers present, he would have dispatched the earl’s partner in heinous deeds, despite the King’s directives. “Thou art without honor, given what thou didst allow to happen to Isolde.”

  “Upon my word, I tried to spare her, as I am not thy enemy.” As he emerged from behind the guards, de Mravec extended his hand but retreated as Arucard shook his head. “Her father is an animal, and he would have killed her when he beat her in the square, had I not interceded.”

  “By recommending he hang her on the following morrow.” Quick as a flash, he swooped and grasped fistfuls of de Mravec’s tunic. “And thou dost consider that sparing my wife?” He wrenched hard on his adversary. “Hear me well, His Majesty may call thee an associate, but if thou dost ever show thy face in Chichester, I will kill thee on sight, consequences be damned.”

  “Thy anger is legitimate, thus I take no offense. But thy rescue triumphed because I assisted in thy plan, and thou should think on that.” Casting a mock salute, de Mravec glanced at the King. “By thy leave, Majesty.” As de Mravec exited, Briarus entered.

  “Didst thou know of his involvement?” Of course, he asked the question with grave trepidation, as he could abide no betrayal. “Art thou in collusion with de Mravec?”

  “Nay.” With a mighty scowl, Briarus narrowed his stare. “I knew naught of his affiliation until last eventide, when his messenger arrived with detailed reports regarding the number and location of Rochester’s forces.”

  “Is our guest comfortable?” The King poured three goblets of wine. “Shall we toast to a victorious enterprise?”

  “In light of Isolde’s condition, I do not consider our maneuvers successful.” Despite inclinations otherwise, Arucard accepted the drink. “And if His Majesty hath no further duties, I would journey to Chichester and remain at my wife’s side, as she recovers.”

  “How long until her health improves?” Briarus inquired. “And Lord Rochester objects to the size of his accommodation, which he claims, quite vociferously, he will take up with His Majesty.”

  “The bastard almost beat his daughter to death and would have executed her had we not rescued her, and he grouses about his quarters?” In no mood for drink, Arucard set down the still full goblet. “He is lucky to draw breath. And Margery estimates it will take a fortnight, at minimum, for the worst injuries to heal.”

/>   “Perchance it will ease her worries to know her father will not survive to see her restored.” His Majesty met Arucard’s gaze and smiled. “We have always intended to execute those responsible for the illegal burgage plots, but we required proof of culpability to mete justice, as we art not cruel.” The Sovereign arched a brow. “As thou dost lead thy men, thou dost know the difficulties of rule, and a king confronts all manner of insurrection, which only increases with time, from the moment he takes the throne. We must not act in haste or without reason. On that note, we would have thy promise to protect and defend our heir, should we meet our fate. Swear thy allegiance to our newborn son, and thou canst discuss with Briarus a way to secure a measure of reprisal for Lady Isolde’s injuries. But have care, and do not mark Lord Rochester’s face, as we would have him pretty when we display his head on a pike outside White Tower.”

  ARUCARD

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was late when the earl of Rochester finished his bath and stepped from the ancere. After drying himself with a towel, he searched for his robe, muttered something about the dismal conditions of his tent, and speared his fingers through his wet hair. Naked, he scowled as he continued to comb through his belongings, presumably in quest for the garment Arucard held in his grasp.

  From the shadows, Arucard emerged. “Looking for something?”

  “What art thou doing hither?” Sneering, the villain narrowed his stare. “Get thee gone, before I summon the King’s guard and have thee arrested.”

  So many rebukes filled his ears, as thither Arucard stood, facing down his sworn enemy. Never in his life had he thirsted for blood—craved it, but in that moment he desired the earl’s death. Yet His Majesty forbade Arucard from killing his father-in-law. But thither were other ways to make the bastard pay for his crimes against Isolde.

  Quick as a wink, Arucard charged his adversary. Using the robe as a gag, he shoved the material into the man’s mouth, muffling his protests. While the earl flailed and scratched, he was no match for a Nautionnier knight almost twice his size. With a discarded tunic and a towel, Arucard tied the earl’s wrists to either end of the bed frame. Then he kicked the man’s feet from beneath him, so he knelt on the ground.

  “Thy back is pristine, so unlike thy daughter’s.” Trailing his fingers down the unmarred flesh, Arucard fought the urge to slit Rochester’s throat. “But I wonder how thee would suffer the punishment thou hast meted without mercy upon her.”

  As it dawned on the earl what Arucard intended, the coward struggled against his bindings to no avail, pissed himself, and emitted a series of pathetic mewling and whimpering that only inflamed Arucard’s fury. Recalling that night after he found the letter from her father, when she displayed incomparable bravery in advance of the discipline she anticipated, he resolved to complete his task. Slow and steady, he unhooked and removed his belt.

  For a scarce second, he hesitated. According to his long held beliefs, vengeance was not his to dispatch, yet visions of his wife flashed before him. In his mind he conjured images of her raven hair, her shy smile, her rosy cheeks as he bathed her, and her green eyes so vivid in the early morrow sunlight. Then the memory of her limp and abused body, tied to a stake and pelted with rotting food, intruded on his thoughts and girded his resolve.

  Standing at attention, he inhaled a deep breath, and swung wide. Brandishing the thick leather strap, moving back and forth, again and again, he whipped the earl, dispensing the justice so righteously deserved. At last, he let go the rage, unleashed the hellfire, and purged the molten ire simmering within him. And as the sad excuse for a nobleman wept and lost his bowels, Arucard counted the tears as an insult to his wife, who bore the brutality as a valiant heroine.

  Without compunction, Arucard beat his heartless foe until he could wield no more retribution. Satisfied, he stumbled back, exhausted from overexertion, and threw his belt to the ground as he studied the bloody welts that streaked the earl’s skin.

  Moaning and whining, the earl flinched when Arucard grasped a fistful of the milksop’s hair. Whispering into Tyreswelle’s ear, Arucard said, “My sweet Isolde, for all her feminine attributes, is more a man than thou wilt ever be.”

  With that, he stormed from the tent. Outside, he located Briarus. “Gramercy, good sirrah.”

  “Shall I presume his lordship prefers not to be disturbed?” The King’s guard cast a lop-sided grin and snickered. “Or should I send for the physic?”

  “Let him stew in his own mire, as it will do him well, given His Majesty’s plans.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he glanced at the full moon peeking through the thinning clouds and exhaled. “Now, I shall decamp for Chichester, as thither I would be when my wife wakes.”

  And never again would he part from her.

  “I understand.” As if sensing the urgency, Briarus led Arucard to his destrier. “Sir Demetrius packed thy armor with his, that ye might enjoy a faster ride. The roads art passable but dangerous in the dark.” He grabbed a torch. “Take this to light the way.”

  “Thank ye.” After securing his cloak against the wind and new fallen snow, Arucard leaped into his saddle. “Fare thee well, Briarus.”

  “And the same to thee, my lord.” The guard saluted. “And I wish improved health and a quick recovery for the Lady Isolde. Prithee, convey my deepest felicitations.”

  “I will give her thy regard.” Heeling the flanks of his stallion, Arucard rode from the encampment and veered to the south, keeping to the verge to avoid ruts, and he struggled with an emotional tempest waging battle within him as he spurred his mount. How far he had traveled he knew not, when he reached the top of a hill, reined in, and stretched. Wrestling with sorrow he could ill contain, he dismounted and strolled to the precipice of a seemingly bottomless drop. Finally, he knelt and gazed at the sky.

  Countless stars flickered amid a blanket of indigo, as the earlier storm dissipated, and he bowed his head and wept. In silent reflection, he closed his eyes and made his confession, but never would he regret his actions. Unburdening his sins, he yielded to the anguish investing his frame, as thither were no winners in the day’s events. “Forgive me, My Lord, if thy servant hath disappointed thee. Alas, I am but a man in love with his wife.”

  Braced for swift judgment and ensuing punishment, he relaxed, as a gentle breeze buffeted him, and yet time ticked past with nary a lightning strike. In that moment, he smiled and nodded once. And so Arucard regained his horse and steered for home and Isolde.

  #

  Her world had been consumed by a series of dreams and nightmares, some vivid in detail and others less so, which haunted Isolde’s seemingly endless sleep. How many days had she languished, as she knew not whether it was morrow or night? “Arucard.” Beneath the covers, she shifted on her belly and reached for him. “Arucard. Whither art thou, Arucard?”

  “Shh.” His voice came to her through a haze of confusion brought about by Margery’s special tea. “Rest easy, honey flower. As I guard thy slumber with my life.”

  In an instant, she awakened, as only her husband called her by the telltale pet name she cherished. To her surprise, she met his stare, as he sat on the floor beside their bed. “Hither art thou, when I have called thee, time and again, and thou hast not answered. Wherefore hast thou not responded, when I need thee?”

  “His Majesty summoned me into action, but Pellier and Margery never left thee alone.” Brushing a lock of hair from her face, he smiled and kissed her. “But I am returned to defend thee, sweet Isolde. And as our Heavenly Father is my witness, never again shall I part from thee.”

  “Thou art unusually dramatic, my champion.” It was then she realized he kept a blanket, and an awful reality, which had tormented her dreams, dawned. “Wherefore art thou on the stone?”

  “I would not disturb thee.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, but the display of affection did nothing to dispel her worries. “And I would not risk injuring thee, so hither I shall remain.”

  “Verily, is it so?” B
urying her face in her pillow, Isolde sobbed. “Or dost thou no longer desire me, as I am beaten, and my cheek is bruised?”

  “Nay, honey flower.” Arucard tried to address her, but desolation and despair encased her heart, and she wept, as she feared she had lost him. “Prithee, Isolde. Do not cry, as my concern is thy comfort.”

  “How can I find comfort if thou wilt not share our bed or thy body?” The mattress dipped as he joined her, and she peered at him and sniffed. “Tell me the truth. I am ugly, and thou dost find me unappealing. I knew it would happen, and Father was right. I am chitty-faced.”

  “Never, and I forbid thee to make such outrageous statements in my presence, as the mere suggestion is a vile abomination.” With care, he reclined, lifted her atop him, and drew the covers to her chin. “Isolde, thou hast never been more beauteous than thou art now, as thou art alive, and that is my sole requirement of thee.”

  “Then lie with me.” Naked but for the strips of boiled linen shielding her wounds, she sat upright. “Pray, take pity, as I need thee.”

  “Nay, Isolde.” Grasping her wrists, he just stopped her from untying his garb. “Thou art weak and vulnerable, and I would not take thee in that condition, as I might cause thee pain.”

  “Prithee, thy rejection hurts far worse, my lord, as I love thee, and I require thy strength.” At her declaration, he eased his hold, and she discovered him hard and ready for her, which somewhat belied her fears but did naught to quell the hunger for his touch. For Isolde, it was too much. To her shame, she broke. Slumping, she shed tears of relief, as her husband cupped her bottom with one hand and hugged her tenderly with the other. “It is true. Thou dost want me, when I thought otherwise.”

  “Aye, I ache for thee, as it hath been too long since I stirred thy sweet waters.” Then he shuffled her in his embrace, doffing his tunic, breeches, and braies in an awkward and clumsy dance. “And never doubt my devotion to thee, as thou hast my heart, for two lifetimes. Yet, when today is but a memory, the whispering wind no longer kisses thy cheeks, and time ceases to exist for us, I will love thee still. Never forget that. Now scoot forward, honey flower, and let me show thee the depth of my regard.”