Box Set - Knights of Passion (7 Novels)
Page 113
“Canst thou not sleep, either?” Arucard rubbed the back of his neck.
“Nay.” Demetrius fluffed and resituated his pillow. “I am hungry, as the boiled chicken scarcely dented my empty belly.”
“Wherefore am I not surprised?” He might have laughed, were he not so worried. It was an awesome responsibility to care for another, and the sacrament tasked him with Isolde’s welfare. Yet he could not shake the feeling that he had failed her, and he would not yield until he held her in his arms. “Would that the sky was clear and the moon high, as I would wake our brothers and drive to Sussex, without stopping.”
“Ah, how I miss Lady Isolde’s brewets.” Even in the dimness, Arucard noted Demetrius’s flinch. “Sorry, brother. I should have said naught.”
“Never should I have left her.” All manner of torment haunted his conscience, as his nightmares taunted him with images of Isolde in her father’s evil clutch. No matter how hard he tried, he could not shake the unease that had settled as a lead ball in belly. And a singular refrain played a disturbing melody, as she invoked his name, again and again, as a plea for salvation, which he vowed to answer. “Never should I have abandoned her, after she begged me to take her with me.”
“At the peril of my own hide, might I suggest thou art weaving unsustainable conclusions based on irrational fears motivated by thy passionate attachment, as thou didst not abandon her? Thou didst act in her best interest; given the battlefield is no place for a woman, which thou didst correctly assert. We have no idea what Rochester plans, and our information regarding his land thefts is vague. Thither is no reason to believe he intends to harm his daughter.” Demetrius arched a brow. “Mayhap I will try to rest.”
“Nay, my friend.” He needed to talk to someone, needed to share the burden he carried; else he might devolve into insanity. “Something is not right, and I cannot explain my logic, as I understand it not. But a deep sense of foreboding chills me to the bone, and I know Isolde is in trouble as sure as I know my name. Do not ask me how I can be certain, as I cannot interpret my instincts—but thou canst attest to the fact that in such instances I am never wrong.”
For a long while, Demetrius said naught, and Arucard presumed his brother slept.
“Arucard, we should get an early start in the morrow.” With that, Demetrius rolled onto his side.
“A rider approaches.” The call came from outside, as Morgan stood watch.
In seconds, Arucard leaped from his straw-stuffed mattress, tugged on his boots, grabbed his cloak, and plunged into the tempest, followed by Demetrius.
“Thither who goes?” He shielded his eyes and just made out the profile of a horse. “Art thou sure the saddle is occupied, as I see no one.”
“I am not sure.” Morgan tried but failed to relight his torch in the dwindling campfire. “But I would rather be safe than sorry.”
The poor beast, with an accumulation of froth about its mouth, trotted into their midst, and it was then Arucard spied the slumped body. As Geoffrey grabbed the reins, Aristide and Demetrius retrieved the unknown person. Together, they carried their uninvited guest into Arucard’s tent, whither they put him in Demetrius’s bed.
When they removed the traveler’s hat, Arucard’s gut clenched. “God’s bones, it is Pellier.”
“Fetch some water.” Demetrius stripped off the soaked cloak and tunic. “Arucard, give me thy blanket.”
“Of course.” As he tucked the cover about his marshalsea, Arucard studied Pellier’s face.
Gaunt in appearance, his flesh showed signs of severe weathering, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. Arucard wet a cloth and wiped Pellier’s forehead and cheeks, and the marshalsea groaned.
For the next few hours, Arucard anchored at his friend’s side, and Pellier’s incoherent babble interspersed with a mention of Isolde stimulated intense anxiety and endless queries for which Arucard had no answer. Why had his friend abandoned his post and left Chichester? What manner of distress sent Pellier in pursuit of Arucard? As the first hint of dawn streaked the sky in pale yellow, Pellier choked and sputtered.
“Easy, sirrah.” Supporting his friend’s head, Arucard held a cup of water to Pellier’s mouth. “Sip slowly.”
“Christ’s blood, art thou trying to kill me?” With a grimace, Pellier coughed and opened his eyes. “That is Adam’s ale. Have ye no beer?”
“I would say he is fine.” Demetrius chuckled.
After a few minutes, Pellier eased upright and scratched his chin. As he made to speak, he sneezed and blew his nose on his tunic. “Sir, I have searched for ye, high and low.”
“To what purpose?” Arucard braced himself. “Is it Isolde?”
“Aye, sir. Her ladyship asks me to tell ye that she needs ye.” Pellier met Arucard’s stare. “Lord Rochester hath taken Chichester Castle.”
#
When Father forced her to journey with him, Isolde wondered about his motives, as thither remained no love lost between them, and he had made no secret of his utter disdain for her. But the answer to her quandary became evident, when he proclaimed his plan to prosecute her for crimes against the citizenry. In short, she was to shoulder the blame for her sire’s conspiracy, thereby positioning him as Winchester’s savior.
The hasty trial, a mockery of justice, had lasted two days in Winchester, with her father acting as judge and jury. Pronounced guilty of conspiring with her husband to steal lands, using the counterfeit burgage plots, Isolde was sentenced to a public lashing. Given she had endured and survived countless such whippings, she accepted the decision with calm confidence. But what irritated her was Father’s outright refusal to grant her the opportunity to plead her innocence before a crowd that viewed her as the enemy. And neither was she permitted to defend Arucard.
As she knelt in the corner of her small room, which featured a single bed, a table, a matched set of chairs, and a washstand, she leaned against the wall. A seemingly harmless drain functioned as a herald, of sorts, as it carried her father’s voice, along with that of Juraj de Mravec, from the chamber below, revealing the details of their nefarious plans.
“Dost thou verily intend to beat thy daughter?” Juraj inquired. “As I would be willing to enter into a marriage contract to solidify our connections. Thither is no need for violence.”
The very suggestion struck terror in her heart, as she had a husband she dearly loved.
“Hast thou lost thy mind?” Father scoffed. “She must be punished for our ruse to succeed. If we art to place blame on the Crown, undermine the King’s authority, and win the support of the citizenry, we must sacrifice Isolde on the altar of rebellion. Trust me, the people want blood, and blood we will give them.”
She expected no less from her father.
“How wilt thou defend against Sir Arucard?”
“Given our most recent communication from thy spies reports he is currently imprisoned by the King, thanks to our fortuitous letter, which inflamed His Majesty’s temper, we need not fear de Villiers.”
In that moment, Isolde bowed her head, bit her lip, shivered, and let the tears flow. First, she wept for Arucard, as she loved him, yet she had not told him so. Second, while Father’s intense dislike was naught new, never had she imagined he would subject her husband to such brutality, in his illegitimate quest for power. In short, thither was no limit to his degeneracy.
“And what of the Lancasters?”
“They will support my son’s ascendance to the throne, and William rallies the troops. Which begs the question, whither art thy men?”
So Father had involved her brother in the dastardly plot. Was there no end to his depravity? Would he not be satisfied until he destroyed their entire family?
“Given the weather hath turned, their departure was delayed. If thou wilt but wait another day or two, my soldiers should arrive to reinforce thy position.”
“Thou hast thy requisite postponement but no more, as I am anxious to secure Winchester for our mighty cause and celebrate my son’s ascendan
ce to the throne.”
The remainder of their conversation degenerated into a vulgar discussion of women, so Isolde moved to stand by the window, which overlooked the town square. At center, a platform held a large stake, and she shuddered, as she envisioned what her father intended. Then she studied the night sky and hugged herself.
Nay, she would not yield, and Arucard would not fall. He was a good man, and the King would see that. His Majesty had to see that.
“Oh, Arucard, whither art thou?” She sniffed and then vowed to fight. “Thou wilt come for me. I believe in thee, and I will do so until I die.”
ARUCARD
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
All was not as he had anticipated, and something was most definitely wrong as he soared over the verge. Evidence of the recent occupation surrounded Chichester Castle, as Arucard noted the remnants of numerous campfires dotting the meadow. That he expected. What surprised him was the absence of Lord Rochester’s troops, as it was obvious the earl had departed.
Was it as Demetrius claimed? Had Arucard worried for naught? But when both drawbridges lowered before he could offer the secret phrase, which his lady had suggested, permitting a hasty entrance, and the head of the guard rushed forth, Arucard feared the worst.
As he drew rein in the courtyard, he searched for the one person he most wanted to welcome him home, but his wife remained conspicuously absent. When he spied Margery, and noted the black bruise to her left eye, his anxiety grew by leaps and bounds.
“Whither is Isolde?” He jumped from the saddle, grabbed Margery, and shook her. “Whither is my wife?”
“Gone, sir.” With tears welling, Margery peered over his shoulder and shrieked. “Pellier.”
“Woman, what happened to thy face?” The marshalsea dismounted and ran to the steward. “Who injured thee, as I will slit the bastard’s throat?”
“Oh, thou art my funny little man, and I have missed thy wit. I am grateful thou art well.” Then, to his surprise, Margery kissed Pellier, and Arucard envied their reunion. “Come inside, and I will tell thee everything.”
While his staff celebrated the Brethren’s return, Arucard navigated the crowd gathered to receive him and walked to his chambers, as he was in no mood to socialize. In the solar, the sitting room had been tidied, but the psalter he gifted his bride on their wedding night sat on the table near the windows, whither she often read. As he opened the double-door portal to the inner sanctum, he found Isolde’s robe draped across the foot of the bed they shared.
Perched at the edge of the mattress, he caressed the linen garment and then held it to his nose. Inhaling her scent, he closed his eyes and invoked her sweet face, framed by her shimmering smile. Then her pleas to journey with him filled his ears, as a morbid refrain, and his heart broke. Never should he have abandoned her.
“Lord Rochester took my lady almost a sennight ago, sir. He declared an intent to journey to Winchester, but that is all I know, and we have had no word of her, since.” With an expression of sorrow, Margery loomed in the entry, and Pellier stood to her right. “The earl threatened to burn the castle, so Lady Isolde made a pact with the devil, himself, to spare us.”
“Of course, she did.” Oh, he could just imagine his valorous heroine, with her blazing green gaze, her fists clenched at her sides, and her adorable chin thrust high. With care, he spread her robe whither she left it, as she would want it when he brought her back. He would not permit himself to think otherwise. “Pellier, have fresh horses saddled for the Brethren, and pack our armor.”
Pellier clenched his fists. “Sir, I would go with ye, as—”
“Thou wilt remain hither, and guard this castle with thy life.” Arucard flipped through his belongings and located a clean tunic. After washing his face, he shaved. “How is Grimbaud?”
“Better, sir. But he blames himself for what happened.” Margery collected his soiled garment. “Shall I bring thy meal hither? Or wilt thou dine in the great hall?”
“I want no food.” He tossed aside the towel and strode into the narrow passage. “And it is not his fault, as Rochester would have found a way to invade Chichester Castle, which might have resulted in costly damage to the curtain walls and rendered us vulnerable to additional attacks.”
Various torments plagued his thoughts, as he pondered the tortures the earl might inflict on Isolde. Of course, naught would have happened to her, had he abided her pleas and taken her with him. While he had sought to protect her, he had, in fact, delivered her unto the earl and very real danger. That was a grave mistake he would never repeat.
“Brother, Pellier tells me thou dost intend to ride for Winchester, now.” With hands on hips, Demetrius frowned. “We have been traveling for weeks, and thou art not thyself. Rest and eat. Can we not take the day to recover, else thou mayest not be fit to rescue Lady Isolde?”
In the vast meeting room, his fellow knights gathered around a large table. For a hairsbreadth, he considered Demetrius’s suggestion, as the men looked to Arucard for guidance. But then he recalled her scarred flesh, and he shook his head. “Isolde may not have another day.”
#
A multitude of angry Winchester citizens lined the street and filled the square, bombarding her with all manner of spoiled food and calling for her death, as Isolde marched to the platform, and the miserable journey seemed never-ending. With her wrists bound, she lost her balance, as a soldier shoved her up the steps, and she tripped and fell to her knees.
“Beat her.”
“Make her pay.”
“Burn her.”
Clothed only in her linen chemise, hose, and leather calf boots, she shivered as the icy December wind chilled her to the marrow, and her teeth chattered. In truth, she also shuddered in stark fear. While she refused to cry, terror struck at her heart, as never had she suffered the unrelenting hatred, however displaced, of so many.
An irate man hit her in the forehead with a rotten egg, and she gagged, bent, and vomited. In a flash, she wrenched free and lurched to the edge of the morbid stage, of sorts. “Prithee, people of Winchester, I am innocent of the charges for which I stand accused and convicted. Thou must believe me. And Lord Sussex works to restore thy lands—”
A screaming woman launched a gourd, which smashed into Isolde’s nose, knocking her backwards. The world spun on end, and she teetered but did not fall.
“I will hear no more of thy lies, as thou hast shown by thy disgraceful offenses that thou art without shame.” Father lorded over her, she spat in his face, and he punched her in the cheek. For a second, she thought she might faint. With a scowl, he shoved a rag between her teeth, muting her protests. Holding a book of prayer, he stretched tall. “Friends, we art come hither today to dispense justice well deserved for crimes committed by Lady Isolde de Villiers, countess of Sussex, who hath been judged guilty for conspiring with her husband, Arucard de Villiers, earl of Sussex, to deprive the honest and forthright servants of His Majesty of their fortune and legacy.”
Cheers echoed on the shop edifices.
Father nodded, the guards turned her to face the stake, and a soldier lifted her arms to hook the binding at her wrists on a pike that jutted on high. Raw terror enveloped her, swallowing her whole, and she pledged not to scream. Father wanted a spectacle, and she would deny him that. To add to her humiliation, her father used a dagger to cut open the chemise and bare her back. “Acting as the Crown’s faithful attendant, I sentence Isolde de Villiers to forty lashes.”
Another deafening roar filled her ears.
Focusing on the sky, Isolde uttered a silent prayer for strength, clasped her hands, and braced for the first blow, which always seemed the worst. For a moment, time stood still, and she held her breath. Then with the leather whip he thrashed her flesh, and the searing agony, so painfully familiar, invested her. Again and again, Father scourged her, and adrift in misery she lost count of the blows. Slowly, her knees failed her, and she faltered, until a blissful chasm of darkness blanketed her in an abyss of oblivion.
#
The main gate heralding the modest town of Winchester sat open and unmanned, as the Brethren of the Coast arrived. As they navigated the narrow streets, dusted with new fallen snow, the shops, with their windows festooned in holly and evergreen, appeared closed, and their doors were shut, which struck Arucard as odd, given the time of day. It should have been the most profitable hours for exchange. And every now and then, a strange cheer erupted ahead, but they moved slow and steady, as they traversed the city.
“I do not like this, brother.” Aristide assessed a farm stand, which displayed various fall crop yields. Yet no trader staffed the tiny market. “Whither hath everyone gone?”
“I know not what to make of this place.” Again the eerie cheer echoed, and Demetrius drew his sword. “What inspires the commotion?”
“Mayhap thither is an early festival, of some sort, in celebration of Christmastide.” Morgan peered left and then right. “Although the holiday is not for a fortnight.”
The hair on the back of Arucard’s neck stood, as another sinister clamor hung in the air, but he advanced. At a quaint tavern with its door ajar, he signaled his brothers, and they drew rein. After tying his horse, he pulled off his gloves and strolled into the dark establishment, from which the distinct aroma of roasted goose wafted. An attendant acknowledged their entrance, as they occupied a table and two benches near the hearth.
“Welcome to the Goat in Boots.” A red-haired character with a noticeable limp tossed a cloth over his shoulder. “I am Orthaeus, the owner. What can I serve ye?”
So many responses filled Arucard’s brain that he could not form a coherent response. Sharing polite pleasantries while Isolde lingered in the earl’s grip struck him as offensive.
“How is thy wassail?” Geoffrey inquired, as Morgan blanched.
“Like me.” The jolly server laughed, and his round belly shook. “Spicy and spirited, as I use an ancient family mixture of special ingredients, so I highly recommend it.”
“Sounds delicious.” Geoffrey smiled. “We will take five flagons, good sirrah.”