Autumn's Flame

by Denise Domning

  "Nay," Geoffrey breathed. Now Elyssa would die and Baldwin would take Cecilia.

  "Damn you," he bellowed in agony far greater than his rage. Careless in triumph, Baldwin had dropped his shield a fraction. Geoffrey drove his sword into his former relative with all the power of what ached in him. The bloody blade cut through mail and gambeson to bury into the man's ribs. Bones cracked.

  Baldwin choked in surprise and pain, then his eyes narrowed. "Kill the girl," he shouted upward, then slid down to sit. "Make yourself another heir," he gasped to Geoffrey. "You'll hold none of what was mine."

  Geoffrey drew back his sword. It hissed through the air then crashed through Gradinton's midsection, spilling entrails. "Damn you," he whispered again, whirling, meaning to scale the ladder.

  "Nay, Geoff." Gilliam grabbed him around the waist. There was no escaping his younger brother's powerful hold. "If you go, he'll but throw Cecilia from the room. Stay and we'll tease him down from there before he does any harm."

  Johanna's shriek echoed against the thick clouds. "Nay, do not hurt my son," Geoff heard Elyssa beg. He looked up in helplessness at the door as the sky cried for the babes.

  "Come down, you," Gilliam bellowed, his voice carrying easily over the ever-decreasing sounds of fighting men. "The battle is done, and you've lost. Do them no harm, and you'll still hold your life."

  ***

  Reginald lifted his sword's tip to place it against his sister-by-marriage's throat. "Grab for him again, I'll kill him for certain. You, as well." Lady Freyne's face, already ashen, went whiter still. If she said nothing, her eyes continued to plead for her son. He glanced at the wee babe he cradled against his chest.

  His new nephew wailed as the beringed metal shirt Reginald wore tore through the lad's swaddling. He studied his tiny kin. Here was one child where Aymer had left no trace of his heritage, not in nose or mouth, especially not in his coppery hair.

  Earlier, a poorly thrown and too quickly retrieved grappling hook had torn a great rent in his mail. A flap of metal fabric hung down from his breast, exposing a section of his padded gambeson. For no reason he could fathom Reginald lifted the babe until the wee thing rested against that garment's softer, woolen surface.

  "Reginald, what will you do?" Clare asked, her voice soft and utterly without fear of him or his intentions.

  Scorn woke in his heart. Did she yet believe she had some hold over him? Until this moment, he'd avoided looking at her. Now, his heart hard, he met her gaze.

  The delicate lines of her face teased up the memory of his mouth against hers. If her touch had made such a heat in him, her love had turned heat into something far more pure. In her eyes lingered the same remembrances. Her mouth lifted as she acknowledged he yet held her heart. Scorn and anger died in the face of her enduring love. How could this be when she knew what he'd done?

  "There can be no gain in harming him now." Her voice was sweet.

  Reginald stiffened, trying to convince himself what he saw was a lie. Aye, a lie or a a pretense, meant to tease him into freeing the babe.

  He turned from her, scanning the room for the other child. "Stand aside," he told the women in the corner.

  They parted, revealing Coudray's daughter. He let his sword clatter to the wooden floor. As long as he held this babe, no one here would do him harm. Reaching into the darkened corner, he caught the back of the lass's gown and drew her forth. She fought a little, but he gave her a swift shake and she hung, limp and placid from his grip. Turning, he went to stand in the keep's open door.

  The battle was done. The quiet that had fallen over Freyne was punctuated only by the cries of the wounded. The ditch was full of oily smoke. It snaked through the broken gate, tendrils lifting over bodies and winding around fallen stones. His gaze flickered to the hall.

  A terrible aching woke in his heart at the twisted remains of his home. He had done this. Of a sudden, the thought of living on past his home's demise was inconceivable. Yet to go into death without striking a blow against those who denied him what was rightfully his seemed equally as empty and pointless.

  "I am Reginald of Freyne," he called down to the knights and soldiers gathering in the motte then stepped even closer to the chamber's edge. The babe in his arms began to complain again as Reginald lowered the arm in which he cradled his nephew so that he might balance both lass and lad. He held Coudray's daughter out over the drop. "Look upon what I hold here."

  "Drop my daughter and you die for certain," shouted Lord Coudray. "Spare her and you'll live."

  "For what?" Reginald laughed bitterly. "Mine has been an empty life. I think me it’s better to go into death accompanied rather than to continue here on earth."

  "Nay, Reginald, do not take them," Clare called to him.

  "Uncle!"

  The soprano call came from the palisade. Reginald scanned its length until he found the boy. Dressed in a metal-studded leather hauberk with mail coif and conical helm to protect his head, the lad had a loaded crossbow in his arms.

  "Do you remember me, Uncle?" Jocelyn reached up and shucked both helm and coif, letting them fall to the motte's floor. The lad's pale brown hair was cut close to his skull. This was the same boy he'd freed the previous day. "I am Jocelyn of Freyne."

  "You are Jocelyn?" Reginald called back, stunned. Nay, this couldn't be the frail and whining lad of last autumn. There was power and confidence in this boy's voice.

  "Indeed," his nephew retorted. "How disappointed I was when it seemed you'd forgotten me. Just in case your memory continues to fail you, best I remind you that it’s my brother you hold there. I'll not be letting you do him any harm." Jocelyn of Freyne lifted his loaded bow to his eye.

  Reginald freed a scornful laugh. "What an arrogant brat you've become, worse even than Theobald was. You delude yourself if you think you can reach me from there." Even if there was a possibility Jocelyn could hit him, the children he held were both targets and shields.

  "My limit is two hundred yards," the boy called, his eye sited and the sound of steel in his voice. "I guess you at one seventy-five."

  "Coudray!" Geoffrey shouted in protest.

  Elyssa watched, beyond hope or prayer, when suddenly Reginald jerked. He stumbled backward into the chamber. Cecilia dropped from his grip, hands and feet landing solidly on the floor.

  "Come, poppet,"Elyssa cried, her voice hoarse with tears. When the lass flew into her arms, Elyssa clutched her close. In her heart, she knew Simon was dead. Then, Reginald turned, her son yet cradled in his arm.

  Elyssa gasped. The bolt had pierced only him, missing Simon. Her brother-by-marriage wore an expression of complete surprise, as if he did not realize it was his life's blood now pumping from him. It stained Simon's swaddling, and her son wailed in complaint.

  Clare rose and went to Reginald. Her cousin took the man she loved by the arm. "Reginald," Clare said gently, "give me Simon."

  He released the babe without protest. Clare cradled the lad close, pressing a kiss upon his forehead, her face bright with love. "Grow you well, my little love. Thrive and prosper."

  Elyssa caught her breath against what sounded like words of farewell. "Clare?"

  As her cousin came to crouch before her, Cecilia freed a terrified sob. "Papa," she managed in a wispy voice.

  "We have heard him, no?" Clare said. "Your papa is coming soon. Now put out your arms for Simon. You are so very good at holding him, and our Simon will need you more than ever now."

  "Clare," Elyssa said, the fear in her growing at her dearest friend's strange manner.

  "Nay, Lyssa," Cecilia assured her, fear disappearin as her face came to life with pride, “this is mine to do." The girl settled onto the floor, her arms extended. "Now,Tante Clare."

  Clare set the crying child into the lass's arms then touched her lips to Cecilia's crown. "See that she is not injured by what I do, Lyssa. See that they both remember me."

  Elyssa grabbed for her cousin's arms. "Clare, what is it you plan?" she asked, knowing exactly
what it was her cousin meant to do. Reginald had wanted to be accompanied in death.

  Her cousin broke free of her grasp, then stood and backed out of reach. "You have given me much, making me special above all others. For that I am grateful. May you find the happiness you deserve in your Geoffrey's arms." Clare turned to the man she loved.

  Reginald now leaned against the door's frame. Elyssa watched as Reginald lifted his hand to trace the delicate rise of Clare's cheekbone, then the fine hollow beneath it. He instilled great love in that simple touch.

  Elyssa's eyes filled. She couldn't allow this. It was a terrible sin. "Clare," she cried out, "he has ruined Freyne and tried to kill Simon."

  "So I have," Reginald agreed, his voice harsh with pain. "Clare, I know you cannot now credit me, but I love you still. Why couldn't I have been content with stewardship and you?" His sigh was ragged with what he'd cost himself.

  Clare laid her hand against his wound as if her touch would keep life from leaving him. "Would that I knew the answer, my love."

  "My love? Despite what I have done?" he begged.

  "What goes forward up there?" came Geoffrey's worried shout.

  "All is well, my lord. Give us another moment," Clare called back then touched her lips to Reginald's jaw. "I have told you before, my heart is given and there it stays. You were a good man before ambition came to eat at you."

  Reginald drew Clare close. "I fear my afterlife will be but an eternity of missing you."

  "As might my life here be without you," Clare said. "Thus do I think I shall come with you."

  "I would like that," he breathed.

  "Nay," Elyssa sobbed. She struggled to rise, but her damaged leg would not support her. With a cry, she fell back to the floor. "Clare, do not leave me. Not for him. He tried to kill us," she pleaded, the pain in her heart so great her words could barely escape around it.

  As Reginald put his arm around Clare's waist, Clare turned to face her. "Lyssa, you have your love. Do not be selfish and deny me mine." Her cousin wound her arms around his neck.

  When Reginald kissed her, their mouths met only briefly. "Think again. We may see each other no more as I am hell-bound for what I've done," he told her.

  "As will I be by choosing to take my own life," she replied calmly. "Set your dagger between us and hold me close so we fall as one."

  He drew the blade and held it between them. Clare leaned her forehead against his cheek, and drew a final breath. With Clare in his arms, Reginald stepped from the floor into empty air.

  "Clare, nay," Elyssa whispered, Cecilia's head caught against her breast to prevent the lass from seeing Clare's demise.

  It was too much to bear. In her grief the blackness crept up on her once more. She fought it, but exhaustion of both body and soul left her helpless against its oncome. In its grip she was reminded that Simon was safe, Cecilia was safe, as was Jocelyn and Geoffrey, whose voices she'd heard. Nor had she any right to deny Clare her heart's desire. Now, sensing peace waiting for her in its velvet depths, Elyssa sighed and sank into the quiet.

  There was a gentle touch against her face. Elyssa sighed, coming slowly from her unnatural sleep. With alertness came pain's return. The bruise on her shoulder throbbed, but her leg ached with a vengeance.

  How could a single pebble have made her leg so incredibly sore? Then, again, over the past week she'd seen men with broken bones, even death, wreaked by the slingers' stones. It was fortunate she was only bruised.

  Aye, but it hurt so. It wasn’t fair that healing should hurt worse than the taking of injury. Amusement rose in her at so petulant a thought. Did she not live still? As her smile grew, she offered the Virgin both thanks and an apology for being so demanding a servant.

  "What makes you smile?" As always Geoffrey's voice was like music. He drew a finger down the curve of her cheek.

  "Pain," she said, her smile dying as she opened her eyes. The ceiling above her was tent silk. Gradinton's. She'd never forget this shade of red, not for her life's time. This was no doubt Gradinton's cot on which she lay. Thick with furs and linens, the mattress was soft. He'd spared himself no comfort.

  Her gaze moved to Geoffrey, who sat on a stool beside the cot's edge. He yet wore his mail, but had freed his head of helm and coif. Love washed over her. Even stained with the gore of battle, he retained his beauty.

  She let her gaze flow from his wide brow to his high cheekbones and strong jaw. Then, she lifted her hand to trace the line of his longest scar until it disappeared beneath his eye's shield. He turned his head and pressed a kiss into the cup of her palm.

  "And, why should pain make you smile?" he murmured against her wrist as he touched his lips there.

  A shiver wracked her at this caress. Oh, but lust was a lovely thing to know for him. "In feeling pain, I know I live still when dawn saw me thinking I would not. You came." This last was nearly a sob.

  He drew back to look at her, a slight frown on his brow. "Did you think I would not?"

  "Nay," she replied in quiet confidence. "I only feared you did not know to do so."

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a gesture that was now achingly familiar and wondrously precious. "It was your message to Ashby that reached me. And for that will I ever thank you. Only with my brothers' aid could I have freed you, my love."

  "I am no less thankful," she replied then sadness washed over her. "What of Sir Gilbert? I saw him fall."

  Geoffrey's smile grew. "He lives still, his injuries dear but survivable. He looks forward to returning to Coudray for his recovery."

  Elyssa sighed in relief. "Praise God, I am grateful. He worked so hard to save us." Her next question trembled a long moment on her tongue before she dared release it. "What of Clare?"

  Geoffrey only shook his head, his brow creased in confusion. "Why did she go with him? The maidservants all say it was by choice."

  "For love's sake," Elyssa breathed, yet working to understand. Then again, even to imagine Geoffrey's passing left in her a terrible emptiness. How difficult it would be to continue in life with such a burden on her heart.

  Geoffrey enfolded her hand with his. "Think not of that, love, but of our many triumphs. Our children are alive and whole, as are we."

  "Is the threat to Cecilia ended or will he be back again?" Elyssa asked.

  "She is ours now, and Gradinton is dead." His smile transformed his face. The dip in his cheek appeared, then the creases that marked his lean cheeks. This was a victorious grin.

  "Thank God," Elyssa said, then sent additional thanks wending their way to God's Mother, who had this once made her Husband and Son listen.

  Geoffrey's smile dimmed and he leaned down, catching her mouth with his. There was much of love in his kiss. She gloried in his caring for her and returned his heart's affection with her own. After a moment, love was not enough. As if he, too, felt the lack, his kiss deepened, speaking of the fire she woke in him.

  Elyssa gasped as her own passionate nature came to brilliant life. Her wanting for him made her forget pain. She raised her arms, catching him around the neck. With her fingers locked at his nape, she trapped his mouth against hers and told him of her need.

  He groaned, the sound deep and low. Her pulse leapt to the tune of it, naught but a goad to her own desire. He'd tell her nay no longer; she'd have him, will he, nill he. His hands came to cup her breasts, then his thumbs brushed against their sensitive peaks and it was her turn to cry out, the sound broken by a gasp. Geoffrey shuddered at her reaction, then eased away from her. She caught his hands in her, not willing to be free of his touch.

  "Jesu, Lyssa, but I want you. It’s time to keep that vow you made. Cecilia is ours, wed with me."

  Elyssa feigned a disgusted look. "More fool I, for vowing it to you. Now you've left me no choice."

  "None whatsoever," he said, turning his hands in her grip until he could intertwine their fingers. "As the victor it’s my prerogative to name the date."

  She lifted her brows. "Aye, and when will th
at be?"

  "In two weeks. That gives time enough to make some sort of ceremony and call the banns."

  Disappointment washed through her. In two weeks her woman's flow would be here. "Nay, I'll not wait so long."

  "What choice have you?" he asked with a quirk of his brows. "I've won the right to set the date."

  "I'd wed with you now," she insisted.

  "Would that we could do so," he said with a negative shake of his head, "but folk will think something amiss if we join in so hasty a manner."

  "What care I for other folks' thoughts?" She tugged on his hands, pulling him from his stool, until he knelt beside the cot. Drawing one of his hands to her breast, she again caught her arms around his neck. She could play the game of siege as well as he. "If they question, let them count the months. Two weeks is too long," she murmured, pressing a kiss at either corner of his mouth. As she took his mouth with hers, she arched beneath his touch on her breast in a fair approximation of how she would move beneath him in love play. Her fingers danced lightly across his sensitive nape.

  Growling softly against her maddening tricks, his hand slid down past her waist to her hip. The force of his need for her made him set the heel of his hand against what now cried out for his touch. She moaned and lifted her hips into his caress as she suckled at his neck. When she nuzzled his ear, it was to murmur, "It’s too long, Geoff. I would have you abed with me, touching me. Loving me."

  He drew a shaking breath at her words. "I yield," he said with a short laugh. When he straightened, his face flushed with the same heat she knew. "On the morrow, then."

  "Wise decision," she murmured.

  "You do not mind a simple, private ceremony?" he asked, restoring the stool to its upright position and receding from her bedside.

  "Mind?" She freed a scornful breath. "Hardly. In my past marriages, I met the man only just before our grand and glorious ceremonies, and the marriages went on to be disasters. You and I have done it backward, coming to know each other before wedding and bedding. A private ceremony but means we'll begin our life together carrying none of my past into our future."