by Jody Hedlund
“Wait,” came Wessex’s voice from the center of the marketplace. “Perhaps Lord Collin would like to say his final good-byes to his sister.”
My sister?
I lifted my head and glanced in the direction where Lord Wessex and Edgar were sitting to watch the execution, the same place they’d been reclining the day I’d ridden into town to free Juliana.
There, next to Edgar in a third smaller but no less ornate chair, sat Irene. She was attired in the most elegant white gown, with lace and pearls embroidered into every inch. Her hair flowed long and loose beneath a veil and was adorned with a wreath of white roses and baby’s breath. She was beautiful—almost as beautiful as a bride on her wedding day.
My pulse careened to a stop. Was she getting married? To Edgar?
Across the distance, Irene met my gaze. Her eyes, so much like mine, were wide with horror and reflected the anguish in her soul. More than that, they pleaded with me for forgiveness. Her face was translucent, and the muscles in her long, elegant neck were taut. She sat stiffly and her fingers gripped the arms of her chair, turning her knuckles white.
“Say your good-bye,” Edgar ordered her with a half grin. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
She visibly swallowed, and her eyes pleaded with me again for forgiveness.
I nodded at her. She may have been resentful of me for inheriting our father’s estate. She may have been cross with me over my initial irresponsibility and carelessness in handling the wealth—and rightly so. And she may have been angry and spiteful with me for telling her no to her choice of a spouse. The truth was, I should have been more sensitive to her all along and perhaps even allowed her to retain some control. Whatever the case, she would never wish me this kind of death.
Even if she’d inadvertently had a role in disclosing Juliana’s identity to Wessex, I knew she’d never meant for all this to happen. She was conniving at times, but she wasn’t malicious.
Edgar’s smile disappeared, and he grabbed Irene’s arm hard enough that she winced. “Tell him good-bye so that we can put him to death and get on with the wedding.”
So, she was getting married to Edgar. My head spun with a vortex of dizziness that threatened more blackness, so that Irene’s distressed and impassioned good-bye was like a distant, muted event.
From the gleam of victory in Sir Edgar’s eyes, I should have known the rogue had planned my execution with the intention of marrying Irene, and by so doing gain my land and wealth.
A fresh burst of anger and strength rippled through me. No wonder Lord Wessex had been all too willing to let Juliana go. Once Edgar became master of Goodrich, they would hunt the peasants again and treat them as brutally as they always had.
The soldier prodded me up the ladder with the sharp tip of his sword. When I reached the top and straightened to my full height, I glanced around for the first time. The marketplace wasn’t as crowded as the day Lady Juliana had been brought to the stake. In fact, the gathering was rather sparse, mostly Wessex’s soldiers and a few tradesmen and their wives who looked on with faces as blanched as Irene’s.
At least I could take comfort in the fact that the people of Wessex had not shown their lord any support for my execution. And I could also take comfort in the fact that Juliana was alive, that she and Bulldog would find a way to escape and survive again as they had before.
The soldier shoved me from behind, sending me stumbling toward the loop of rope that would strangle the breath of life from me, choke my vocal chords, and bring me to the brink of death.
I didn’t fight as I was forced to stand upon a stool and shove my head through the noose. When the coarse hemp tightened against my throat, I simply closed my eyes. I was ready to die. I’d prayed enough over the past two days and had made my peace with God. I knew I’d done the only thing I could have by taking Juliana’s place.
I loved her more than my own life. Even if she didn’t love me in return the same way, I could do nothing less than die for her. I wouldn’t have been able to stand back and watch her lose her life, not without dying myself on the inside.
At a command from Wessex, the soldier kicked at the stool and it slipped away, first from one foot and then from the other, so that suddenly the rope bit painfully into my neck. As the pressure of my body pulled down against it, the noose drew tighter.
I dangled in midair, nothing under my feet, my body swaying slightly.
The rope dragged against my chin and cinched against my vocal chords. But I held my eyes closed, willing myself to remain calm even as my throat burned and my airways began to constrict with the lack of air.
Fifteen seconds passed in what seemed an eternity. My legs began to twitch from the lack of oxygen. And my head roared with the growing need to draw a breath.
After another fifteen seconds, I couldn’t keep myself from thrashing, the need for air overpowering all of my other senses and reserves.
They would keep me up for at least another minute before cutting me down, although it would be more merciful if they let me die here and spared me the torture of slicing my body open.
When the sharp twang of an arrow rent the air and pierced the rope above my head, I opened my eyes in surprise. The arrow sliced the cord in one swift motion, plummeting me to the scaffold and onto my backside with a hard jolt. Another arrow rapidly followed the first, and this one hit its target—the palm of the soldier who’d been standing guard. The arrow’s trajectory and force had also pinned the man’s hand to the beam behind me, making him cry out in pain.
Several more arrows hit the soldiers surrounding the scaffold before any of them could react.
I gasped, trying to suck in air. I grappled with the rope, desperate to loosen it so that air could reach my lungs. One look at the clean cut of the twine and I knew what was happening. A sick dread stampeded through my already roiling stomach.
Juliana was there somewhere. No one else but her could hit a target like that—except me.
With panic replacing the burning agony in my throat, I wrenched the noose, prying it free. At the same time, the noon air was split with piercing, warlike cries. The onlookers screamed and began running.
I tossed off the rope and dragged in a deep breath. And then I pulled myself to my feet. A sweeping glance at the perimeter of the town green gave me all the information I needed to know. The peasants of Wessex had risen up in revolt against their lord. They surrounded the marketplace, their crude weapons drawn, their rag clothes their only armor, their faces fierce with determination.
There, at the center of the small army, stood Juliana. Her cheeks were smudged with dirt, her hair pulled back under her men’s cap, her garments stained with dried blood and caked with mud. Even so, nothing could hide her beauty, the graceful curve of her chin, the stunning brown of her eyes.
She was achingly beautiful. But she was also stubbornly foolish.
I wanted to march over to her, grab her by the arms, and shake some sense into her. She shouldn’t have come back. Didn’t she know how slim her chances of defeating Wessex were? Most of the peasants held pitchforks, clubs, and hammers. Only a few had knives or bows. With such a pitiful army, by the day’s end she would end up tortured and dead—just like her father?
Yet here she was, at the very center of an uprising. Her bow was taut and her arrows flew as fast as she could draw them. Bulldog stood at her side, his bow working just as swiftly. One glance at Bulldog’s face and I knew that he would die first before letting anything happen to Juliana.
Even though I was tempted to rush over and drag her out of the danger, deep inside I realized that the best way to save her was to win the battle against Lord Wessex.
Lord Wessex’s soldiers were running every which way, the initial surprise attack and the arrows throwing them into confusion. But my battle training told me they wouldn’t be running for long. They’d pull themselves together, and their superior strength and weapons would eventually squelch the peasants.
Unless . . .
Even though my battered body protested each movement I made, I bounded across the scaffold, swiping up the swords of the fallen guards. I swiftly cut my hands free. Then with a deftness born of desperation, I jumped from the scaffold into the screaming fray of people milling in every direction. With the chaos erupting around the scaffold, no one was paying attention to me anymore, and I easily wound through the melee, collecting weapons until my arms ached and my back bent under the weight.
I dumped the weapons on the ground near the fringes of peasant men, who rapidly descended upon the pile. Then with a sword in both hands, I charged forward toward Lord Wessex’s men, calling the men to fall into step behind me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw archers positioning themselves on the town walls. Once their arrows began to fly, we would begin to suffer casualties. Moreover, we wouldn’t have much time until more of Wessex’s well-trained guards stationed at the castle heard the commotion and came charging into the battle.
If we could cut down the soldiers already at the square and take even more weapons, then we might possibly stand a chance against the bulk of the army.
With a roar, I swung the swords, deflecting blows while at the same time disarming more soldiers. “Grab as many of their weapons as you can,” I shouted over the clank of metal and the fierce cries of those fighting.
An arrow slashed the air near my head. Another quickly followed and plunged into the back of the peasant next to me, who crumpled to the ground with a cry of agony.
I glanced over my shoulder to the town wall, and ducked just in time to avoid the arrow that would have embedded itself into my head. If only I had my bow and arrow, I’d take the archers out one by one. As it was, I was helpless under their onslaught.
An archer pulled back his bow to shoot at me again. Apparently, they were aiming primarily at me. How could I lead the peasants in battle if I had a target on my back? And yet how could I take out the archers before they killed me?
A bowman nearest to me was perched on the walkway of the town wall, his arrow pointed directly at my heart.
Suddenly, an arrow pierced the man’s neck in the tiny sliver of exposed skin between his helmet and his chest piece. He stiffened and then toppled forward over the stone wall. I watched as he crashed to the ground, motionless, his bow and quiver of arrows next to him.
A second arrow met the mark in the neck of another archer, then another. I glanced in the direction of Juliana. She had her bow aimed at the wall, at the archers, and was taking them out one by one, her hands flying methodically but faster than any archer I’d ever seen.
I breathed a silent prayer that she’d have enough arrows to stay safe, and then spun back into the onslaught before me, rejoining the peasants in their attack on Lord Wessex’s soldiers. My mind, my muscles, and my body went into the focused solider mode that the Duke of Rivenshire had drilled into me. All my aches and pains, my anxiety over Juliana, my doubts about defeating Wessex—everything fell away. I thought of nothing but swinging my swords and cutting down the enemy in order to get more weapons into the hands of the peasants that surrounded me.
I shouted and pushed forward and led the way into the fray, pushing the soldiers back until they retreated down the cobbled street that led back to the castle. I began to relentlessly pursue, when suddenly an eerie silence descended over the market square behind me. The peasants fighting alongside me stopped and turned, their swords hanging useless at their sides.
For several moments I slashed forward, pushing onward, my breath coming in heavy gasps, blood roaring in my ears.
“Drop your weapon, Lord Collin,” came Lord Wessex’s sharp shout behind me. “Or I’ll kill Lady Juliana right here and now.”
I spun and lifted my swords, ready to plunge them into Wessex’s heart. But at the sight that met me, every ounce of fight drained from my body, leaving me weak and shaking.
“Blessed Mary,” I whispered.
There, in the center of the green at the top of the abandoned scaffolding, Edgar had captured Juliana. Her bow and arrow lay trampled at his feet. He’d wrenched her arms behind her back. Her cap was off, and he’d gripped a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, exposing her neck. In his other hand, he pressed the sharp blade of a knife against her skin hard enough to draw blood.
Chapter
19
“LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS,” LORD WESSEX DEMANDED again from the foot of the scaffolding. The man’s chest heaved in and out. He was sweating profusely. And bright crimson stained the white sleeve of his tunic where the broken shaft of an arrow stuck out.
How had Edgar gotten his hands upon Juliana?
A glance in the direction of where she’d been shooting only moments ago revealed Bulldog sprawled on the ground, unmoving, a pool of blood forming in the dirt at his side.
My gaze swung back to Juliana. Across the distance, her eyes pleaded with me to keep fighting. We had the upper hand. We were doing the unbelievable. We were driving Lord Wessex’s army back. We couldn’t give up yet. Not now. Not for her.
“Throw down your swords,” Wessex called to me, clutching the wound in his arm.
My chest burned and my parched mouth cried out for relief. The inaction made me acutely aware of the flesh wounds in my back from being dragged through town, the ache in my ribs from the endless kicks in the dungeon, and the pain in my neck from where the noose had strangled me.
But none of my pains compared to the agony of seeing Juliana at the mercy of Edgar. The pain was nearly as intense as the agony I’d felt earlier in the week when I’d witnessed her tied to the stake.
“Don’t stop!” she cried out. “Fight to the death!”
Edgar yanked her head, pulling her hair hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.
I stepped forward, my body stiffening and my fingers tightening around my swords. Her big brown eyes pleaded with me to keep fighting, to defeat Lord Wessex once and for all—even if she had to die in the process.
The truth in her eyes hit me hard. If I gave up my sword and stopped fighting, Lord Wessex would kill us all anyway. He’d burn Juliana at the stake as he’d initially planned and then finish quartering me. But if I rallied the men to press onward, to ignore Wessex and Edgar—and Juliana—then we still had a chance to win.
As when she was tied at the stake, she wanted me to let her die. She was willing to sacrifice her life so that her people could regain the freedom they desperately needed.
The awfulness of the situation barreled into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. How could I possibly stand back and let Sir Edgar slit her throat? I couldn’t.
Again, her eyes pleaded with me to stop standing there, to resume the fight before Wessex’s men could regroup and surround us. But I couldn’t move. I loved her too much to stand back and watch her die. She had to know that. Even if she didn’t love me in return, I’d never stop loving her.
She lowered her lashes, as if she couldn’t bear to see the love in my eyes.
I fought against the urge to drop my sword. I knew in the end that her sacrifice, her death, would bring about greater freedom for the peasants she loved and it would put an end to Wessex’s tyranny. I could grant her last wish, couldn’t I? I could defeat Wessex for her sake, in honor of her.
The renewed yells of Lord Wessex’s soldiers echoed in the street behind me. They were rallying to turn the tide of the battle.
Juliana lifted her lashes then and met my gaze one last time. “Please,” she mouthed even as she strained away from the sharp blade at her neck.
I gave the barest of nods, the motion wrenching my heart into two.
The resignation within his eyes tore at me. But relief weakened my knees.
My death wouldn�
�t be in vain. Collin would lead the peasants to victory. I’d seen the determination etched in his face from the moment he’d spotted me in the crowd. He’d fought valiantly and pushed the peasant men to do more than I’d dreamed possible.
He’d been wise to go for the weapons first. And his training and experience as a warrior would lead them to victory.
Without me.
I watched him raise his sword above his head, the valor and determination returning. He shouted to the men surrounding him to stand their ground. And then, before spinning away from me, he caught my eyes again.
Good-bye, I said silently. I love you.
As if I’d spoken the words aloud, his eyes widened and he faltered.
Yes, I had to let him know that he hadn’t loved me in vain. That I returned his love. I knew that now.
He stared at me, unable to sacrifice his love for me. His arms dropped. His swords began to slip out of his fingers.
“No-o-o-o!” I cried as Edgar’s grip on my hair wrenched painfully. I couldn’t let Collin give up. They’d kill him too. At least if he fought with the peasants, my uncle and cousin would only be able to kill me.
As one of Collin’s swords clattered to the cobblestone street, I heard the distant trill of a trumpet outside the town gates. I ignored it and screamed my protest again. “No, Collin!”
How had I let Edgar get his hands on me in the first place? If only I’d been more cautious . . . But I’d been too focused on taking out the archers on the wall and keeping them from hurting Collin.
As it was, I’d already lost Bulldog. I wouldn’t let Collin stand by and give up his life for me again.
“Kill me,” I demanded of Sir Edgar. “Kill me this instant.” At least if my cousin slit my throat now, Collin would have no reason to hand himself over to Uncle. Maybe he’d return to the fight before it was too late.
The trumpet blared again, this time louder. My attention was at last caught by the clatter of warhorses and the clank of armor, and my eyes flew to the town gate. At the sight of an army of knights, fully clad from head to toe in shining silver armor, brandishing an assortment of the most deadly weapons, dread swept into me and nearly knocked me off my feet.
