by Jill Hughey
Rochelle scoffed, “My fate was only in my hands twice recently. First, when I resisted your very seductive attempts to have sex with me. And second, when I refused to lie for you.”
David registered no shock at her bald language. “At least you thought I was seductive. That is something.”
“You are also a hypocrite and an ass.”
He refused to be baited, keeping the same carefully blank expression on his face. “Rochelle, what is this really about? Are you afraid I will lose the tournament, because you need not be."
“Afraid? Have you ever considered I might hope that you do?”
She’d finally broken through. He stepped back from her as if she had struck him. “No,” he said quietly. “I had not. Tell me what has happened. What has changed between us? I thought we were getting along well. I thought you wanted me.”
The genuine hurt in his voice flashed her thoughts to the tender man she’d believed him to be, the lonely man who everyone admired but almost no one really knew or cared about. It made her immensely sad to think he never had existed. She missed the David she’d known.
She looked through the trees to the meadow beyond. “I did want you. But now I know you were pretending. I heard you the night before last, David. I heard you tell Theo how you had almost gotten me, how, if you had ignored all my nonsense, you could have taken my virginity in the hay like some housemaid and all of this could have been yours.”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“I was coming downstairs to be with you, but there were those words, hanging in the air like poison.”
“And then what did I say?”
“I did not listen any more. I was so heartsick I went back in my room.”
He strode to her and gripped her arms in his hands. “Then you did not hear me go on to say that I could not imagine losing you. That even though I have only been here a few days I feel like I belong here, that my future is here.”
“I am sure Louis will find you a nice compliant girl with a big estate and no nonsense.”
David shook her lightly. “I do not want that girl.” He released her arms and paced in front of her. “Rochelle, you are looking at the picture of frustration. I am so frustrated in so many ways I cannot even begin to tell you. I shared a few sentences of that frustration with my best friend. You happened to overhear it. You are unfair to let one brief outburst undo all my actions toward you.”
“Your actions have been very calculated to trick me into thinking you are someone you are not.”
“You know that is a lie.”
“I do not know you at all.”
“Yes, you do! You know me,” he pressed his fist against his heart, ” you know me better than anyone. And it cuts me to the quick every time you refuse to acknowledge it. Every accusation, every suspicion is like a punch in the stomach.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I do not know you,” she rasped. The responsibility was too great. Her betrayal was too enormous if what he said was true.
He returned to her, standing close but not touching, his eyes staring into hers. In their brown depths she saw him laid bare, exposing the boy raised by distant relatives, the man with no home to return to each autumn. His voice was deep and tender. “You know my weaknesses. You know my secret hopes and plans. You know what I want my life to be like. You know what my children will look like. You know that if you put your hand on my stomach I stop breathing.”
Her breath hitched and she blinked her eyes against tears.
“And I know you,” he continued. “You are compassionate and hardworking. You are afraid of losing your life’s work in marriage. You bear great responsibility and you bear it well. I understand your immense loyalty to your people and what an incredible gift it would be if, as your husband, I earn some of that loyalty for myself. I –”
“Stop,” she said. “I do not deserve your admiration.”
“You heard a few sentences spoken in anger, Rochelle, because everything I want is right here yet out of my reach. I swear it.” He grabbed her hand to place it over his heart. “I swear it.”
Unable to resist any longer, she leaned into him, laying her cheek against his chest. His arms wrapped around her and she heard him give a ragged sigh.
“I am sorry for judging you too quickly,” she said haltingly.
“I am sorry about yesterday morning. Your mother and Theo were intent on their plan. I should have stopped them.”
Her heart squeezed in her chest. He didn’t know the half of what she needed to apologize for. She wondered briefly if something could be done? Could she go after Gilbert, or send someone? She had no idea where to even start looking. Her instructions had been vague and desperate and ridiculous, and Gilbert had been gone for nearly two days. “I have done a foolish thing, David. The tournament —”
“Hush, Rochelle. It is too late to stop the tournament now, that is true, but I will win. Your refusal to have sex with me, as you so romantically put it, has set us back a few weeks. All will be put right. I doubt anyone of real consequence will enter. If I can convince you to stop riding around all day, I will start some training. I will win the tournament, the Franks will be appeased, we will marry, and that will be that.”
His confidence, the warmth of his body, the sound of his voice resonating in his chest were so comforting, she couldn’t bear to break the cocoon of mutual understanding they shared. She knew he was being comforted by it also. Her distrust had wounded him.
She knew him.
It was herself she no longer recognized.
What had she done?
Chapter Nineteen
They adopted David’s suggested routine for five days. He spent his mornings in the courtyard with his weapons, did strengthening exercises, and disappeared on long runs with no apparent destination.
Rochelle tried to work in the house, but found herself drawn often to the porch to admire his swift movements with the blades, or the muscle-bulging exercises he performed with apparent ease. Her confidence in his victory grew, so she forced all thoughts of Gilbert’s task from her mind, like a bad dream fading after a few days. If David won and her secret remained just that, then no real harm had been done. Her fear of killing the trust David had given her made her accept her own cowardice.
Samuel lurked in the courtyard on the second day and began emulating David on the third, eager for time with a man worth his admiration. David tolerated the company, even sparring against him with sticks, though they both spent most of the time laughing at Samuel’s ineptitude.
Rochelle could sense David’s growing restlessness. He barely touched her on their afternoon rides or evening walks and he was jumpy as the barncat.
On the fourth day, Gilbert returned. He was bedraggled and exhausted. He had also, unfortunately, been successful, though Rochelle did not feel at all triumphant in her plan. “You have hired a young good-for-nothing named Riculf,” he informed her in private. “I did not particularly care for him, but one of your father’s old friends suggested him based on my necessarily vague list of requirements.” Rochelle could hear his unspoken words. If you end up married to him, it is your own fault. She couldn’t have agreed more, and once again, tried to squash the growing sense of guilt and impending doom.
On the morning of the sixth day, one of Theo’s men arrived with a short note for David. Rochelle watched David from the porch. Steam rose from his clothing in the chilly air as he read it. “Fire and smoke,” he muttered. “Where did they come from?”
She rose, uneasy. “What is it?”
David spoke abruptly to the messenger. “You can get a hot meal inside, then I want you to return home. Thank Theophilus for the information. Tell him I will leave for Ribeauville tomorrow. I will hope for his hospitality. And his help in my training.”
The young man ducked his head in a nod, then followed Rochelle inside. She quickly handed him off to Ruthie so she could return to David. He stood deep in thought, absently oiling his semi-spata.
�
��What has changed?” she asked, her voice more shrill than she wished.
“Theo informed me of the challengers in the tournament.”
“And?” Rochelle asked breathlessly. Her knees wobbled.
“One is Sewell, stupid boy,” he said dismissively, “but the other two are experienced soldiers like me.” He slipped the short blade into its sheath then began working on the spata.
“Who are they? What are their names?”
“One does not have a name, at least not that anyone knows. We call him The Black. He is a Bavarian, strangely enough. He is a short beast of a man covered all in black hair. Hence the name.” He sheathed the spata to look up at her. “The second is Riculf. He is big, a Frank, and…not nice.”
Rochelle’s legs gave out. She sank to the steps of the porch.
David strode to her, concern creasing his face. “I spoke too freely. I forget you still think you might end up married to one of them.” He squatted in front of her and rubbed her fingers. “Do not be afraid, sweetling. This changes nothing. I will still win. I will leave nothing to chance.”
“Is that why you are going to Ribeauville?” Her eyes were clouded with the same panic he’d caught glimpses of ever since word of the tournament had come. He’d find her staring at him, her beautiful face pale and drawn, her whole body stiff.
He nodded. “I must do more than spar with Samuel to be in my top form. That is why I must go to Ribeauville. I have beaten both these men before and I will do so again. Do you trust me?”
“I do trust you,” she said without hesitation. “I just wish I could give you some reason to trust me.”
He chuckled. “It is more important that you do not give me a reason to distrust you, don’t you think?”
Her eyes widened and she swallowed convulsively. “I think I already have,” she said thickly.
He laughed out loud. “Nonsense. We have had but one short argument, quickly resolved. Now, up with you,” he rose and offered her his hand to pull her to her feet. “We will have an early lunch, then go out for a long ride. It will be our last for a few weeks, so let us make the best of it.”
The thought of his leaving troubled her more than she liked. If he lost the tournament she would probably never see him again, a thought that only increased the squeezing on her heart and constant nausea in her stomach. How could she have been so stupid to send Gilbert on that fool’s errand?
She glanced over to David, comfortably astride Woden. The names of the challengers and his plan to train for the tournament in Ribeauville brought an even firmer set to his broad shoulders, while the idea of the upcoming event weighed so heavily on her she felt she would suffocate before the day ever came. The full burden of her guilt now pressed down on her relentlessly. She had been able to push it off for a few days, but hearing those names and descriptions had brought reality down on her like a landslide. She could not outrun it or shelter from it.
How would she get on without David there to help fill the days, thus keeping her thoughts from her betrayal of him? The irony of it made her ill.
They rode to the river that flowed liquid gray beneath a brilliant blue sky. David lifted her down, immediately pulling her against him. The surprise pushed all other thought from her mind.
His eyes bored into hers earnestly. “I would have a kiss or ten to carry me through,” he said thickly.
She met his lips willingly, pressing up against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. His hands went to her hips, his fingers spreading over her bottom. He moaned in his throat. He slanted his lips over hers again and again until he tore away to nuzzle at her neck. She went on tiptoes to put her lips against his throat as well.
“Mercy,” he grit out. “We had better stop while I can, or I will have you on your back in those wet pebbles and you will never forgive me for that.”
“What if I do not forgive you for stopping?” she purred against his skin, drugged into a sensual trance by his attentions. She nipped at his neck then kissed the spot. Now, while she had the opportunity, she wanted to give him all that she could.
His hands tightened convulsively on her hips before he set her away from him. “Do not test me,” he said harshly. “I am not made of stone.”
David walked to the river. He stood with his back to her, fists clenched against his thighs. He would certainly turn to stone if he knew the truth, or at least his heart would.
She watched him and hated herself. She had failed him yet again, proved again her ignorance where he was concerned.
“I did not mean to test you,” she said hesitantly. “I do not know the boundaries….”
He raised a hand to silence her. He shouted suddenly, a great roar of frustration and impotent rage that echoed down the course of the river.
She stepped back, unsure how to comfort him, or if he could be comforted. He didn’t want touch or words. So she waited.
Finally he spoke. “After this tournament is over, there are no boundaries.” He turned to point his finger at her. “Do you understand me? I am done with self-restraint and deprivation and virginal nerves.”
She nodded meekly. He turned back to the river. They stood for long minutes watching the cold river flow. To Rochelle, it felt like he had already gone.
“We should go home,” he finally said, sounding tired.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It is getting late and you have a long trip tomorrow.”
Woden and Denes moved across the fields easily. In one of the flatter areas, Rochelle kneed Denes into an easy gallop. She glanced over her shoulder, watching David rise to her challenge, though he stayed back from her and to the side as he always did. She leaned over Denes’s neck, feeling his powerful strides, letting the wind rip at her veil. And then the world cartwheeled around her.
She landed hard on her back with no opportunity to break her fall. The breath slammed from her body. She could not make her lungs fill. Gagging sounds came from her throat as she struggled to breath. She was vaguely aware of David calling her name. He skidded to his knees next to her, then quickly gathered her in his arms to move her a short distance before gently placing her in the prickly grass again. She finally pulled in several full gasps of air before trying to push up on her elbows.
“Just breathe, Rochelle. Be still a moment,” he ordered. “Does anything hurt?”
“I – I do not think so. I could not catch my breath. It is getting better. Of all the stupid things,” she said, starting to feel embarrassed. “I have not fallen off a horse in ages.”
“It happens,” he said, his face grim. “Are you sure you are well?” His eyes searched hers until she nodded. He glanced over his shoulder.
Rochelle slowly became aware of the sounds, a thrashing in the grass, a soft squeal. “Denes?” she whispered, her voice rising in panic. “Where is Denes?”
David turned back to her. “He is down, Rochelle,” he said gently. He caught her against him as she sat up, cradling her against his chest so she could see over his shoulder but go no further.
“No,” she whimpered then she shouted. “No! Let me go! I have to help him!”
She felt his grasp loosen and she rose on shaky legs to stagger forward. Denes lay on his side, his back toward her and legs flailing. Bile rose in her throat as she saw his left front leg, dangling at an odd angle just below the knee. He tried to roll to his feet then collapsed down again with a squeal of pain.
Rochelle’s own legs failed her, so she crawled to him. “Denes?” she said softly. “Denes? It is me. I will not hurt you. Do not be afraid.”
The gelding lifted his head to look at her, his brown eye rimmed in white. Rochelle stroked his shivering neck until he laid his head back down.
She turned slightly to find David close behind her. Without looking up she said through clenched teeth. “I have killed him. I know what must be done. Will you do it for me? I should do it myself, I know, but I do not think I can do it…quickly.”
David thought her face exquisitely wrought, pale skin stretched ti
ght over her fine bones. Her eyes might have the slightest sheen of tears as they gazed down at her beloved horse. But she was not controlled by the despair he knew engulfed her. She controlled it.
He beheld before him the face of courage in the female form.
Denes had quieted under her hand, waiting, it seemed, for her next instruction, her next word of encouragement, her soft guidance at his bridle or rein.
David balled his fists, hating the task set before him.
“Will you do it?” she asked again harshly, her shoulders quaking even as her hands stroked Denes soothingly across his strong shoulders.
“I will,” David said. “Of course I will.” He moved to Denes’s head to gently remove the bridle and reins. “Take Woden,” he said softly. “Wait for me over that rise.”
Her head was already shaking. “No, I will not leave him. Just do it.” She began to croon softly to the gelding.
David trudged to Woden, draping the bridle over the saddle. He unsheathed his spata well away from Rochelle then cut a large square of cloth from his tunic. He cursed under his breath before marching resolutely forward to straddle Denes’s neck.
Using the cloth as a shield against the blood, he placed the point of his blade at an angle behind Denes’s jaw, prayed that his aim was true, then thrust brutally down. Rochelle released one strangled whimper. She continued stroking her beloved horse while his lifeblood flowed into Alda’s fertile soil.
She hadn’t cried and she wasn’t crying now. David had cleaned his blade while she said goodbye to the horse. When he reached for her elbow, she had risen willingly then latched onto him as if her life depended on it, her thumbs making dents in his biceps. He had held her for a moment, waiting for the storm of grief to break. It did not, so he pried her off him to get them both in Woden’s saddle. She rode sideways over his lap, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her head cradled on his shoulder.
He had no words for her. He wasn’t sure she would hear him if he did. They rode along in silence, the sky darkening into the rapid dusk of late autumn, the warmth of day leaving the earth just as the warmth of life was leaving Denes’s body.
