Devil's Knight

by Geri Borcz

  Had she not been dwelling on her absent husband, she'd have anticipated the possibility of danger in time to avoid this meeting.

  "Juliana!" roared the familiar voice, and she watched Roger close the gap with twenty men in tow.

  She'd seen him last that eve in her father's solar. How would Roger treat their strained relationship? Tensing inside, she saw no reprieve and hauled sharply on the reins, determined to brazen it out.

  "Roger?" she returned.

  "What are you doing here?" he demanded, reining in next to her. "Fool woman, 'tis dangerous to ride out alone."

  "I am hardly alone, Brother," she said, bristling. "I have sufficient number of men-at-arms for escort."

  Belying her bravado, she gripped the reins so tightly, the horse protested and shied.

  "Control that beast," Roger snapped. "I see marriage has changed naught about you, Ana. Still disobedient as ever."

  Heat rushed into her cheeks. She hadn't expected any warmth from him, and given the damage she'd inflicted to his pride, considered his brusque manner conciliatory of sorts. Shadows from the helm and nasal wavered down his scarred features and obscured his eyes. She couldn't read anything in the remote face visible.

  "If naught else," he said, "I'd thought Lord Richard possessed more sense."

  The unfounded contempt rankled.

  "He and Lady Angharad departed for Normandy a sennight ago," Juliana said.

  Just then, Isobel and the escort caught up to her and slowed their mounts. She watched Roger stare across her toward the little dark-haired maid who kneed her horse close to Juliana's and reached out a hand to entwine with hers. Juliana detected no interest on his part, then watched his gaze swing to the eight guardsmen and size them up one by one.

  "You worthless fools," Roger barked. "In my service, I'd tolerate no such dereliction of duty. Stay with your mistresses, by God, you're useless trailing behind them like sodden pups."

  Then he shifted back to Juliana and indicated Isobel with a jerk of his chin.

  "Who's this?"

  "My lord of Adington's daughter," Juliana said, unwilling to volunteer more. "Now, if you've finished."

  "Have you a name?" he said to Isobel.

  "Roger, I see--"

  "Cease Juliana, let the maid speak. Have you a name?" he repeated, his voice no more revealing than his twisted face.

  Juliana wondered what he saw, wondered if he'd recognize the similarities.

  Her unease trapped her breath in her lungs, but she mustered her courage. For good measure, she kept her mount between Roger and Isobel.

  Rhys had entrusted Isobel to Juliana's care; his most beloved possession to her care. She'd die before failing his trust again. And, if need be, she'd fight Roger before she let her brother do any harm.

  She moved her head, an imperceptible nod to the hesitant child at her side. Answer his question and be done.

  "I'm Isobel of Adington, my lord," she said, and to Juliana's surprise, ventured further. "And you're my lady mother's eldest brother, Lord Roger of Stanmore. 'Tis a pleasure to meet you, at last. I've heard wondrous accounts of your bravery in battle, my lord."

  Roger glanced to his sister, then back to Isobel. He regarded the little maid for long, silent moments, then finally nodded an avowal of the flattery.

  Juliana breathed easier with a surge of gratitude and chanced a half-smile to Isobel for diffusing the tenseness.

  "We had reports that the Scot has licked his wounds," Roger said. "You'd best return to your home and stay within the walls until we've run him to ground. He's not above demanding ransom for foolish women who ride into his hands."

  With that advice, and after a quelling stare toward her escort, Roger wheeled his mount.

  "Ana," he murmured as an afterthought and chanced a last searching glance at the little maid. "Tell your lord husband, I approve. . .."

  Screaming. Juliana remembered screaming. Sticky on her face. The smell--blood.

  A scorching invective split the air.

  "Here. Here!" a faraway voice cried. "I've found her! Sweet God in Heaven, Ana, talk to me."

  The voice, scratchy with emotion, came from directly above her. The urgency jolted Juliana through the maze of pain. She rolled to her side, grunting with the effort and fighting a wave of nausea. Soft dirt and dried grass crumpled beneath the fingers that dug in for leverage, and someone lent her support to bring herself upright. Her ripped sleeve slid down her arm and bunched at her wrist.

  "Careful. Sweet Jesu, what have they done? Can you sit?"

  A man's lyrical voice—the creaking of mail—he squatted next to her.

  "Rhys?" she mumbled past a thick tongue, leaning an arm heavily upon a mail-clad thigh.

  "Nay, Ana, he's yet to return from the king's business. 'Tis me, Oliver. Jesu, Ana, what happened? Why are you out this far? Where's Isobel?"

  "Isobel?" she said, confused by the fear she detected in her cousin's tone.

  She rubbed her eyes and temple, and her fingers came away wet.

  "Aye, Isobel," he said.

  "She's with Lady Angharad? Oh, Oliver, my head."

  "Wheesh, do you remember naught? She and Lord Richard departed for Normandy, but they left Isobel at Adington."

  "Left without you?"

  "Think, Ana. I'll join them when your lord husband returns. For mercy, you and Isobel went riding this morn with an escort. What happened?"

  A second male voice intruded, this one out of breath. "Praise to the Saints. How is she? Is she hurt?"

  "A nasty wound to the head," Oliver said. "She's a bit addled."

  "My lady, can you ride?" said the second voice again.

  "In a moment," snapped Oliver.

  Bright light sliced into Juliana's brain, and the full impact of the morning's horror came crashing into her mind with terrifying intensity.

  "Isobel," she screamed.

  Her eyelids flew open, and she flinched from the new ache brought on by the piercing sunlight. Several yards away in knee-high grass, she saw two men-at-arms checking the ground where the bodies of her escort lay scattered. Horses milled without restraint, their reins dragging the dirt where they nosed for food. She closed her eyes against the pain.

  "Don't look," Oliver said and turned her face into his chest. "Who did this, Ana?"

  "Oh, God, Oliver. Roger said--"

  "Sweet Jesu, Roger did this?"

  "Nay, he tried to warn me," she cried. "They've taken Isobel. I tried to stop them. I fought, and one hit me, then knocked me from the horse."

  She wiped the tangled hair from her face and smeared blood over her cheek to her ear, then winced at the gash in her hairline.

  "Who, Ana?"

  "That mangy cur, Malcolm," she sobbed into Oliver's chest, a mixture of tears and anger. "He's finally repaid me for his misery. We went for our ride and came upon Roger. He warned us back, but the Scots were waiting."

  "Roger left you in danger?" Oliver gasped.

  "Nay, he left us in peace and rode off with his men. On our way back, men came from everywhere. We must find her," Juliana cried, grabbing his arm in a bruising clench. "Roger feared he'd try for ransom. Oh, Oliver, Rhys trusted me with his daughter, and look what I've done."

  "Calm yourself, sweet. 'Twasn't your fault. Fools that we are, we all thought that cowardly Scot beaten. You fought them?"

  "Aye, but--"

  "And nearly got yourself killed from the looks. Sir Costin," Oliver shouted over his shoulder, then relayed what he'd learned.

  Juliana heard Costin swear a coarse oath, then shout a litany of orders. Men scrambled to his bidding, and the creak of leather and jingle of bridles signalled their readiness to ride. A moment later, the hoofbeats told her they'd set out after Isobel.

  "My head spins," Juliana moaned. "I can't sit a horse."

  "Not to worry, Cousin. We'll have you home anon. Keep your eyes closed, believe me, 'twill make it spin less. Now, put your arms around my neck."

  Oliver rose to his feet
with Juliana in his arms and gently handed her to a mounted guard. She bit back a cry of pain with the horse's first steps, then remembered nothing until she awoke in her bed.

  Her cousin knelt beside the bed, his face ashen with strain. The shadows advancing into the chamber marked the waning day.

  So many hours had passed.

  "Ana, can you hear me?"

  "Aye," she groaned, then leaned on her elbow. "News?"

  Oliver swallowed and nodded.

  "We've brought Isobel home."

  ~~~~

  CHAPTER 24

  The sun soared to its zenith in the azure sky at the same time Rhys entered Adington's gates, with Alain riding at his side.

  His elation and anticipation died upon hearing both watch guards call down a subdued greeting. He returned a curious nod. His eyes focused ahead.

  Too many men bearing Stanmore's colors milled in his courtyard. Ahead of him, instead of Isobel's enthusiastic welcome or Juliana's saucy smile, he saw Costin descend the stairs from the keep with Oliver trailing behind.

  The hairs on Rhys's neck prickled.

  "Do you suppose Baldwin's health turned worse in our absence?" Alain said.

  "Perhaps," Rhys muttered, unwilling to speculate.

  He steeled himself for whatever the two grim men had to say and halted his destrier before the keep. He looked to Costin, while Serle scrambled from the saddle and took the reins tossed to him.

  "Well?" Rhys said, removing his helm.

  "Malcolm struck," Costin said. "Yesterday."

  A frisson of fear rumbled through Rhys upon hearing the care with which the sandy-headed knight measured his words.

  "And? God's teeth, out with it man."

  He cast an impatient glance toward Oliver and met a white face, bloodless, the fists at the lad's side clenching and unclenching. The helm slid from Rhys's fingers to the ground.

  "Where's my wife and daughter?" he demanded, staring up at the stark keep, then pushed between them to gain the steps.

  Costin caught his upper arm before he took two strides.

  "He surprised them on their ride, expecting capitulation, but they fought back. The entire escort is dead. Juliana and Isobel were hurt."

  Rhys stared at his man in frozen silence.

  "Juliana did what she could," Costin added. "Then sent to Stanmore for a woman well versed in simples."

  The petrified immobility that gripped Rhys lasted only a second. Roughly, he shrugged off the detaining arm.

  "Roger brought the woman," Costin called after him.

  Rhys never acknowledged that he heard and took the stairs two at a time.

  "Where is my wife?" he demanded of the first guard he encountered near the door. Without waiting for a reply, Rhys shoved past him and raced blindly into the hall.

  Roger stood in front of the blazing hearth and now spun around. Dust covered the surcoat that lay atop his hauberk, his brown hair wore a disheveled pattern wrought by nervous fingers, and the good side of his face bore the deep creases of worry.

  "Your lady wife is above stairs with Dame Agnes," he said, his voice hollow and barren of all hostility. "Tending to Isobel."

  A muscle jerked in Rhys's cheek, the only sign that he'd heard or seen the scarred man. His control came perilously lose to the edge.

  That Roger was here when Juliana needed someone, yet Rhys was not, tore through him like a howling wind. Into his chaotic thoughts sprang the dread, once again, that while Juliana cared for him, did she care enough? Uttering a savage growl, Rhys sped up the stairs.

  Agnes bent over Isobel's bed. Below a rounded shoulder, amongst the covers, he spied a tiny body that seemed lost.

  Juliana stood at the foot of the bed and turned at the sound of the door wrenching open, and Rhys felt a knife twist in his gut. He'd often admired her strong will and courage, but she'd never embodied those traits more than now.

  Could he do less than she?

  He inhaled a deep, calming breath and harnessed his desperation.

  Conceal the pain. Show your wife no weakness.

  Hide coverings blocked the arrow slit to ward off any evil airs, and flaming candles on the table and stools threw an abundance of light into the chamber.

  He could plainly see Juliana's swollen face. Angry color tinted the once sun-kissed skin, guaranteeing to darken with ugly bruises, and above her ear a bandage covered a wound.

  "Those responsible will pay dearly for this," he promised.

  She faced him fully, despite the stiff movements that lacked her usual grace. Her mouth bore the evidence of long hours of strain in a whitening at the edges, and her red-rimmed eyes testified to bouts of tears. Even now, he watched moisture pool within the smoky orbs and knew she'd never let them fall.

  Helplessness and unbridled guilt rampaged through his blood. His women deserved better than a man who failed them.

  Before his unmanliness showed, Rhys quietly shut the door, aching to take his wife into his arms to console, and mayhap find consolation, but she held back. Wariness flickered in the injured eyes that stared back at him, underscoring his failings.

  He halted inside the chamber, hesitant, uncertain whether she'd rebuff his overture. But in truth, he wouldn't blame her. When she silently stepped back from the bed and him, he decided not to press her any further now.

  Words failed him, adding to his impotent rage. No apology, no soothing reassurances, no chivalric oaths for what she'd so obviously suffered seemed adequate. His tongue tripped over logical, but lame excuses for not being there when they needed him, for not ending the feud once and for all.

  "My thanks for—for your care of Isobel," Rhys managed, shocked to hear his voice sound so harsh and raspy.

  Juliana's mercurial changes always mystified him and this one proved no exception. A wounded expression bathed her features and cut him to the bone, and out of guilt, he quickly shifted his glance to the bed again. He lacked the power to move back time, so how else could he make up to his wife for the hurt and fear?

  "My lord--"

  Agnes straightened toward him, giving him his first clear view of the bed, but she spoke to a deaf man.

  Rhys stepped to the footboard and felt every ounce of strength drain from his body. Isobel slept, quiet, fragile, at peace, an undisturbable sleep. He'd seen men on the battlefield and knew with absolute certainty the inevitable outcome.

  "She's dying," he said, so low only God and His angels could hear his wrenching anguish, his soul rending.

  Agnes nodded to the wisp of breath.

  "I can do naught else, my lord. She's injured... inside... 'twill not be long now...."

  And her voice faded as she stepped away from the bed to give him a private moment.

  His self-possession deserted him, the ability to remain calm under pressure evaporated, instead the weaker emotions a man usually curbed fought for an outlet. Grief, so intense that he trembled, engulfed him.

  But nay! he couldn't collapse in front of his wife. For her, he needed to be strong, for her.

  "Out," he ordered them, in a voice so raw, he scarce recognized it as his own.

  A hand reached toward him and he withdrew from it. One soft touch from Juliana now would shatter him.

  Two pairs of feet shuffled, then the door opened and closed behind him. Nothing existed for Rhys, his world condensed to the bed and the little maid who reposed in the middle.

  Standing in the curtain's shadow, Rhys gazed upon her, watching the candle light bathe her in a soft, golden blanket and kiss her aristocratic profile. As countless times before, he knelt by Isobel's side.

  He gently picked up the hand that lay atop the coverlet and put the cold palm to his stubbly face.

  "Isobel," he said in a broken whisper. "'Tis Papa... open your eyes, Isobel." Then more forcefully, "Isobel. Please. . . Cease this... 'tis Papa... now open your eyes."

  Rhys pressed her palm closer to his lips and tasted the salty wetness that trailed his cheeks. He wished with all his heart he could s
teal her from her dreams to bide more time.

  Over their short years together, far too many goodbyes had passed between them, and this one was the hardest farewell of all.

  * * *

  The cry of a wounded animal rent the air in the castle, more terrible in its bleak emptiness. Juliana collapsed in the stark silence that followed, weeping.

  A reverent hush soon enveloped the hall. Servants padded to their tasks, while watchful guardsmen lined the walls like wooden men.

  Roger kept his distance near the hearth. Directly across, slumped in a recessed window seat, Juliana wrapped herself in a ball of misery. Unmindful of anyone around her, she started, then responded to the comforting arm that encircled her shoulder, and glanced up.

  "You've bid Isobel on her journey?" she said.

  "Aye," Oliver said, then cleared his throat. "My Lord Rhys gave permission, so I've just come from her chamber."

  "I know not where he gets his strength... but how does he fare?"

  Oliver shrugged. "Better than some." Taking the seat across from her, he studied her for a moment. "Go to him, Ana. He needs you."

  "He hates me," she whispered. "If you could have seen his face, Oliver. Or heard him when he spoke." She shuddered. "He blames me, and justly so."

  "Ana, don't--"

  "For the rest of our days, he and I will know I was the one who gave in to her pleas. I shouldn't have indulged her whims."

  Oliver leaned forward and took her trembling hands in his.