Passion's Exile

by Glynnis Campbell

  Sparks flew from the flashing blades as the two knights clashed once, twice, thrice. The wounded man was slow to recover, but the other two regained their stances and thrust toward Blade again. One weapon he deflected. The second swipe he ducked beneath. The third man returned with a slash that sliced into Blade’s doublet at the ribs, but went no deeper.

  The wounded man rushed at him, and before Rose could even finish gasping, Blade dove for his legs, bowling him over. Blade instantly rolled to his feet to face the others.

  They circled nervously, and Blade, impatient for their attack, stepped upon the back of the groaning knight, then over him, lunging toward the man on the right. Steel met steel, and the grating seemed to echo the tense discord of Rose’s nerves.

  Blade kicked out again to deflect the swipe of the man on the left, but the man in the middle used the opportunity to stab forward. Rose gasped as the blade appeared to pierce Blade’s body. But he’d dodged the blow. The sword had slipped under his arm.

  Blade arced his free hand over his opponent’s sword arm, and jerked his arm back, pulling the man forward by his captive hand until he collided into Blade’s shoulder.

  The impact forced the man to drop his sword, and Rose—itching to rush forward and retrieve the weapon—struggled in vain against her bonds.

  Blade then used the man as a shield. Just as the attacker with the injured shoulder thrust his sword forward, Blade shoved his captive into its path. The man moaned as his fellow's blade sank into his belly. His assailant spat out a string of oaths at his unfortunate mistake.

  Rose watched in horror as the blade was pulled free. The man clutched at his stomach, blood seeping between his fingers, his face limned with astonishment and pain just before he fell senseless to the ground. She shuddered.

  But Blade was already engrossed in another battle, caught between two of the remaining attackers. They prepared to swing around simultaneously from opposite sides, and Rose squeezed her eyes shut, sure they would cut him in half.

  When she dared peek an instant later, Blade had dropped his sword and leapt up, clinging to an oak branch overhead. He pulled up his legs just as the swords whistled past beneath him.

  Rose buckled in relief until she realized that Blade had just disarmed himself. He hung like a haunch of beef, waiting to be butchered. What would he do now? Damn his eyes! If only he’d freed her...

  The three remaining knights surrounded their quarry, their eyes gleaming with vengeful glee. Rose couldn’t bear to watch. But she couldn’t bear not to. So she squinted her eyes, hoping to filter out the worst of what was to come through her eyelashes.

  One attacker, the one who’d killed his fellow, couldn’t wait for his revenge. He slashed toward Blade. Blade swayed back out of the way. While the man recovered, Blade swung forward again, hoisting his body up and over till he crouched atop the branch, out of their reach.

  Rose wanted to shout for joy.

  But the tree proved more prison than haven. He had no way down and no weapon. What acrobatics could he possibly employ now? Gawter’s men had only to wait for him to descend.

  They’d obviously come to the same conclusion, for they began to chuckle at his predicament. Even Blade’s expression of righteous wrath took on a doubtful cast.

  Then an ominous creak sounded, and the limb began to sag. Rose held her breath while Blade sank closer and closer to the threatening swords. With a sudden crack, the branch gave way, and Blade tumbled to the ground with a great crash and a deep thud.

  To his good fortune, the limb felled the men below as well. In the confusion, Blade managed to move out of their range. But he was also out of reach of his sword.

  Rose sobbed in frustration. She didn’t know how much more of this anxiety she could endure, violently rocked between hope and despair.

  Within moments, Gawter’s men tossed aside the broken limb, staggered to their feet, and lumbered toward him again.

  Blade looked about urgently, seeking a weapon—anything—to defend himself. He picked up a long branch, testing its strength by striking it against his palm, but the thing broke off. The attackers drew closer, their faces smug, and Blade retreated toward the fire, scanning the ground.

  When he’d backed as far as he could go, when flames appeared to lick at the back of his legs, the men lunged at him as one, and Rose winced, sure Blade would fall into the fire and be consumed.

  But he turned and dove over the leaping flames, rolling in the dirt on the other side. When he came up, he was wielding a flaming brand.

  Armed now, Blade thrust the log before him, driving his assailants back. They deflected him as best they could with their swords, but fire was a daunting enemy. Finally, one of the men, losing patience, grabbed the brand in his mailed hand, planning to disarm Blade by tossing the thing aside before it could do damage. But as he flung it away, the flames leaped onto his cote-hardie faster than a beggar falling on a dropped coin. He slapped at the fire, cursing as he tried to extinguish it, but it only intensified with his flapping.

  To Rose’s horror, the man closest to him, the one who had punched her so mercilessly in the stomach, began to laugh as if he thought his fellow’s suffering a fitting end for his poor judgment.

  Soon the man was shrieking in panic, squirming as the hungry fire fed on his garments and then his flesh. But his companions did nothing to ease his agony, and soon the wretch was beyond help. Sickened by the sight, Rose shut her eyes tightly. When the man began to scream, she wished she could close her ears as well.

  Abruptly, the screaming stopped, and she opened her eyes again. But ‘twasn’t Gawter’s knights who had put an end to the man’s suffering. ‘Twas Blade. He’d seized the man’s fallen sword and delivered the blow of mercy. The fire consumed what remained of the man’s dead body while his head burned a few yards away.

  And now Blade was armed. He advanced on the two remaining knights, his mouth twisted in revulsion. He swept the bloody sword down twice, tracing a violent X in the air.

  "Ye whoresons aren’t worthy of your armor," he sneered.

  Then he engaged both men at once in a clash of furious steel. Rose had never beheld such speed, such power. He spun and slashed and thrust with the unpredictability of a summer squall. Unlike the gallant combat of tournaments, his fighting had a rough, crude character. He fought, not for style, but for efficiency. Lacking a shield, he elbowed his opponents away, backhanded them, even shoved them across the clearing with the sole of his boot.

  One man fell backward, and Blade would have run him through had the other knight not swung around with a sword he was forced to dodge. The fallen man found Blade’s lost sword behind him and swept it up, gloating as he faced Blade armed with two weapons.

  But Blade remained undaunted. He joined his hands on the hilt of his sword, and the increased strength of his blows sparked off the man’s weapons, jarring them until the blades shivered. He drove his opponent back with a vengeance until the man, cornered against a tree, gasping and grimacing in fear, dropped the weapons. Blade’s sword flashed in the firelight as it circled for the killing thrust.

  But Blade’s chivalry prevented him from slaying the unarmed knight. Instead, he plowed his gauntlet into the man’s face. The clout made a sickening crunch on contact, and the force knocked the man’s head back against the tree. His eyes rolling and his nose dripping blood, he slid slowly down the trunk into a heap at the foot of the tree.

  Rose wished she could have cheered, but while Blade had been preoccupied, the last remaining knight—the cruel one who had driven his fist into her belly, the one who had abandoned his companion to die an agonizing death—had decided to try another tactic. The sharp edge of his sword pressed against the rapidly pulsing vein in her throat.

  CHAPTER 14

  Blade turned, and the sight before him—the woman with the battered face and her tormenter standing beside her, leering in smug contentedness, threatening her—brought so many memories crashing down around him that he staggered under their w
eight.

  Not again, he thought.

  Visions of the past swam before him with palpable clarity. Bruises on the woman’s cheek. Her torn gown. Tangled hair. Blood. And then the sounds. The nauseating smack of her abuser’s fist. Gasps. Weeping. And over it all, the fearful hush of the crowd. Then the incredible, unfathomable chuckle of satisfaction, clashing with the woman’s piteous sobs. The same chuckle Blade heard now as the demon before him—not his brother this time, but a monster of the same ilk—gloated over his victim.

  For a moment, Blade couldn’t move. The memories unmanned him. His arms trembled, and his knees grew weak. Apprehension loosened his grip upon the sword.

  Not again.

  "Put away your sword, sirrah!" the man jeered. "I’ve won the day."

  But something in the man’s voice tweaked Blade’s ear, awakening him from haunting memories. ‘Twas not the same at all. And suddenly he was wrenched back to the present.

  This was not his brother.

  This was not Mirkhaugh.

  And when he glanced into Rose’s eyes—shining with courage and determination and rage—he realized this was not his brother’s wife.

  His grip tightened again upon the hilt, and hot blood flooded his veins.

  "Come fight me like a knight!" Blade roared.

  The man’s eye ticked in displeasure, but he managed to bite out a reply. "Brash words from a felon."

  "At least I don’t hide behind a woman."

  The man’s mouth twitched as Blade’s insult found its mark. But ‘twas a dangerous game. One slip of the sword...

  "She’s not my woman," the man replied. "’Tis no matter to me whether she lives or dies. But ye... Drop your sword now, or her next breath will be her last."

  Blade studied the man’s face. The man’s eyes glittered with the same coldhearted malignance as his brother’s. He was sincere. He’d kill Rose. Without remorse. And without blinking an eye.

  Blade cast a quick glance toward Rose. She frowned, staring intently at his hip. She’d noticed his dagger, the weapon he wore at his hip for close combat, and she wanted him to use it. But she didn’t understand. He was several yards away. By the time he reached the villain...

  She met his eyes, sending him an unspoken message of childlike trust.

  "Drop it!" the villain bellowed.

  Blade muttered an oath. He had no choice. Rose had suffered enough. He couldn’t let more harm come to her. His shoulders lowering in resignation, he let the sword fall from his fingers.

  "There. ‘Twasn’t so difficult, was it?" the man crowed, though he wiped the back of his hand across a brow beaded with sweat.

  Then, with a cocky salute, the knave started to lower his sword.

  An instant later, Blade’s dagger whirled through the air. By the grace of God and Blade’s steady hand, the knife sheathed itself deep in the villain’s chest. Blade whispered a prayer of thanks.

  He wasted no time with the incredulous brute who choked in pain and surprise, staggering and gasping for air. The man would eventually die. His only concern was for Rose. He picked up his sword, rushed forward, shoved the wheezing man out of reach of her, and bent to slice her bonds.

  By the time he loosed her gag, the man had shuddered out his last breath and lay silent in the leaves.

  "Blade," Rose croaked, lifting trembling arms around his neck. There was such relief, such faith, such tenderness in that one syllable that it swelled his heart and illuminated his soul.

  Overcome with compassion and self-reproach, he swallowed a lump of shame. How could he have ever suspected such a good-hearted woman of betrayal? Wilham was right. She was as innocent as a flower—sweet, pure, delicate...

  "Damn your hide," she whispered against his cheek, jarring him from his remorse. "Why the devil didn’t ye loose me earlier?"

  He grinned, relieved. Her body might be bruised, but her spirit was unbroken. He lifted her carefully in his arms, carrying her toward the flickering firelight so he might tend to her hurts.

  "Would ye have run to safety as I commanded?" he asked, hunkering down by the fire and settling her upon one knee.

  Her mouth quavered on the verge of a smile. "Maybe."

  "Maybe?"

  "After I lent ye assistance."

  "I feared as much," he told her, brushing a stray lock of hair back from her bloodied cheek.

  She was too weary to argue. She was almost too weary to drink the watered wine he offered her from his flask. But she managed a few swallows, finally lowering her eyes in exhaustion. Then she relaxed against his chest with a trust that warmed him to his core and began, miraculously, to heal his damaged spirit.

  He thought she’d fallen asleep. While she lay quiet, he perused her injuries. Her jaw sported a dark bruise, her cheek was split, and there were scrapes along her neck. But her bones, at least, seemed whole. He wondered if she was fit to travel.

  Her eyes still closed, she said faintly, "Let’s go. This place reeks o’ death."

  Blade was only too happy to oblige. After he kicked dirt over the fire and set the knights’ horses free, he mounted his own steed with Rose before him. ‘Twas a long ride back, but Rose was as light as thistledown in his arms. He hastened the horse along the road until, several hours later, he happened upon a crumbling cottage purporting to be an inn.

  ‘Twas near midnight, but a few pieces of silver persuaded the innkeeper to let the last remaining chamber to a traveler and his wife. After seeing that the horse was safely stabled, Blade carried Rose upstairs to their room, a shabby place with a straw pallet and chinks in the plaster. But ‘twas warm enough, reasonably clean, and safe.

  She stirred as he laid her out atop the bed.

  "‘Tis all right," he murmured. "No one will hurt ye now, I swear."

  As a noble knight, he was obligated to protect and defend the helpless. But for the first time in his life, when he made that pledge, he meant it with all his heart.

  Blade ran the back of his hand over Rose’s precious locks. She made a soft sound of relief, then curled on her side, falling asleep again almost instantly. He swore that as long as he breathed, he’d not let harm come to a single hair on her head.

  He lifted the coverlet over her, secured the shutters, and, bunching his satchel to bolster his head, stretched out at the foot of her pallet, his sword at the ready beside him.

  Though he was exhausted, he didn’t fall asleep immediately. Something picked at the back of his brain. Who were the men in the red cote-hardies? And why had they taken Rose? They’d made no demands, and they could see she had no possessions with her. Yet, of all the pilgrims, they’d purposely selected her. They’d been sent by someone, whoever belonged to that red crest. ‘Twas not one Blade recognized, but in the last two years, the king had granted land to several nobles. It could be anyone. And though the thought caused a foreboding twinge in his chest, he realized it was probably someone Rose knew.

  He wouldn’t wake her again tonight, but on the morrow, he’d make Rose tell him everything. After all, he couldn’t protect her from an enemy he didn’t know.

  Some time later, when he’d slept a few hours, but the world was yet dark, he heard someone creeping close. His fist had already instinctively coiled about the hilt of his sword, but he soon realized the interloper was Rose. Dragging the coverlet with her, she eased down beside him.

  "Move o’er," she said, her voice soft and demanding at the same time.

  He released his sword and opened his arms. She nestled easily into the curve of his embrace, as if she’d belonged there all her life, wriggling herself into a comfortable and intimate position that roused his blood and taxed his restraint.

  "Ah, witch, ye don’t know how sorely ye tempt me," he breathed against her hair.

  But his silk-voiced temptress was already asleep.

  When Blade awoke the next morn, Rose was still slumbering on the warped wood planks, cradled in his arms. ‘Twas absurd, but he couldn’t remember sleeping so peacefully, not even in his feather
bed at Mirkhaugh. ‘Twas heaven lying with Rose, her soft hair tickling his chin, her skin smelling of womanly slumber, her body warm and soft where it clung to his. He hated to disturb her.

  But the day grew late. And now that Rose was safe, they had to intercept the other pilgrims. After all, Rose still planned to journey to St. Andrews, and Blade had an assassination to prevent.

  So as gently as he could, he urged her awake.

  "Rose? Rose."

  When she turned drooping eyes to him, he winced at the cut on her face, made all the more vivid by the light of day.

  "Is it time to go?" she murmured.

  "Aye."

  He reluctantly extricated himself from their pleasant entanglement, rose to fetch a linen cloth and water from the pitcher beside the bed, then returned to crouch beside her.

  "Tell me," she ventured, rubbing at her eye. "How is Wink?"

  He smiled. Here the lady sat, her face bruised, her garments torn, snatched from the jaws of death, and all she cared about was that crippled falcon of hers.

  "Better." He dipped the cloth in the water. “She ate an egg.”

  He pressed the wet linen to her cheek. She winced once, but managed to remain brave for his ministrations.

  "Who’s carin’ for her now?"

  He wiped away a spot of blood from Rose’s ear. "Wilham. Though your Highland nurse is likely fightin’ him for the privilege."

  "We’ll join them soon?"

  "Aye."

  She grabbed his wrist. "How soon?"

  He swiped at the tip of her nose. "So many questions."

  She relinquished his arm with a sigh.

  He relented. "We’ll leave after I’ve seen to your injuries."

  "God’s teeth," she pouted, ducking away. "I’m well enough. Let’s leave now."

  He frowned, catching her head by the chin to more closely inspect the bruise along her cheekbone. "I have a few questions for ye first."

  She bit at her lower lip, obviously disconcerted.

  He swabbed at a scratch beneath her ear. "Who were those men?"