by Betina Krahn
“What makes you think Grandaise has your daughter?” Avalon demanded.
“It’s an eye for an eye—” There Verdun halted.
“And what wrong would Grandaise be redressing, Verdun?”
The count refused to incriminate himself by answering, but the duke supplied the answer.
“One abduction for another, eh? Well, I have seen your daughter and spoken with her,” Avalon continued. “She is indeed within Grandaise’s walls. But I can swear to you, on the king’s honor, that Grandaise had nothing to do with her being here. She took it upon herself to ride to Grandaise and seek sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary?” That unexpected claim set Verdun back on his heels for a moment. “What the devil could she need ‘sanctuary’ from?”
“From you.”
It took a moment for Verdun to react.
“That’s absurd. I am her father—her lord—her guardian. She has nothing to fear from me.”
“Except a marriage she found repugnant and possibly deadly. She claims you would force her to wed a portly German to cement an alliance. Is that true?”
“It is.” Verdun reddened furiously. “It is my right, as her father, to determine who and where and when she will wed.” He thumped the tabard-covered mail over his chest. “My right. She is mine, to do with as I think best.”
“She feels differently. She has, in fact wedded another … one Martin de Gies. I believe you know the man.”
“M-Martin? She wedded my Martin de Gies?” His anger, stretched and thinned for a moment by those revelations, snapped back. “That cannot be true. He’s my First Knight—he would never have—” But the reality that his trusted right arm and daughter had gone missing at the same time struck him and he sputtered, then silenced. After a moment, he clenched his hands and growled, stalking away from the duke and then back. “I don’t believe it—I demand to see him—to hear it from his own mouth!”
The duke strode closer and lowered his voice.
“This Martin de Gies did not wed your daughter entirely of his own accord. He was forced to do so in order to get her to return home. I believe he did it to try to avoid bloodshed between your houses. I arrived just after the vows and immediately advised him to go no further with the marriage than spoken words. The situation may yet be saved …”
The count looked up at Grandaise’s gate and spotted Sophie and Sir Martin standing with Griffin and his ransomed cook … just inside the iron bars. He sensed the satisfaction on his rival’s face and swore, shaking a fist at him.
“This is all his fault—I’ll have your head for this, Grandaise—”
“No, you won’t!” came a feminine voice from the gate. In a heartbeat, Sophie was wrenching open the gate and running out to face her father. She stopped a few yards away, well within the safety of the duke’s and king’s men. “Lord Griffin had nothing to do with it, except to give me shelter when I was desperate for help. I would never have needed sanctuary if you hadn’t insisted on selling me into bondage with that horrid German. And I would never have thought to come here if you hadn’t abducted Julia and brought her to Verdun. It was her I came to for help … and she turned to her husband to help me … the very husband you forced upon her. So in a way, most of this is your fault, Father. Your pride and scheming set into motion events you couldn’t control. And now you must live with consequences.”
“You’ll come home with me right now, Sophie Marie, and submit to my authority and do your duty as my daughter,” Verdun commanded, advancing on her. She skittered back to the safety of the king’s men and they closed ranks around her. Verdun halted, speechless with frustration, and looked from the duke to the gates of Grandaise. “I’ll have this marriage annulled!” he called out. “And you, Martin”—he scoured the iron gates and pointed at his errant First Knight—“I’ve treated you like a son—trusted you—and you betrayed me!”
“How is that, Verdun?” the duke intervened. “He tried to bring your daughter back to you … tried to keep you from having to shed blood. How does that make him a traitor?”
Verdun trembled as he stared between his First Knight and his daughter’s faces. Martin de Gies pulled open the great iron gates and strode outside to take his place beside Sophie. Griffin exited the gate and came out to stand with them.
“I had nothing to do with her coming to Grandaise,” Griffin called to Verdun. “When I tried to send her home with your Martin de Gies, she declared she would only go if she were duly married to him.” He smiled a bit smugly. “It seemed a fitting turnabout, since I was forced to marry at your hands.”
“This is an outrage,” Verdun sputtered, looking to the duke of Avalon.
“No, Verdun,” the duke said, jamming his fists on his waist. “It is justice.”
A frantic call came down from one of the sentries in the south tower. The alarm was relayed clearly … causing Griffin and everyone present to look to the sky. And there it was. A growing plume of smoke.
“The south village!” Griffin snarled and made for Verdun—but was caught and restrained in time by Sir Martin and the duke. “You bastard! Burning my villages while we stand talking! You see, Your Grace? You see his treachery?”
“That is not my doing!” Verdun protested, staring in confusion at the smoke, then turning defiantly back to Griffin. “Unlike you, I prefer to settle my differences with honor, on a battlefield. I don’t go about firing villages and terrifying cottagers!”
“No, you send your henchmen to burn out my shepherds!” Griffin charged, thrusting closer to Verdun, his body coiled to strike.
“I’ve burned no cottages—”
“Then explain that smoke!” Griffin roared.
The duke thrust Griffin back and took the ground midway between the pair of opposing lords.
“Lord Bardot is not responsible for any burnings,” Martin stepped forward to declare. “In fact, I was riding out with some men to investigate a fire myself when I spotted Lady Sophie coming here.” He looked to Griffin, making a connection in his mind. “Sir Gerard came back from patrol the night before Lady Sophie left with word that two of our outlying cottages had burned.”
“Someone is burning,” the duke declared, turning to Verdun. “On your oath, count …”
“It is not my doing, Your Grace. How could it be—when I am here and the rest of my garrison guards my own walls? I swear on my faith, I have nothing to do with it.”
The duke turned to Griffin.
“And you, Grandaise … on your oath …”
“I swear by all that is holy—I have not raided or burned. This is my south village.” He glared at Verdun. “I’ll soon prove who is behind this destruction!” He turned to the gates and called for horses.
“Wait!” The duke grabbed him back by the arm and held him. “We will go and discover the truth together. Take ten of your men, Grandaise. And you—Verdun, the same number. I will bring a dozen. We ride together or not at all.”
Griffin stared at Verdun, who glared back at him. Both nodded.
“Reynard, we’ll need a score of men,” Griffin charged back through the gates issuing orders. “Axel, you and Greeve—bring a half dozen of your best archers. I want some wounded to question.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Together, Griffin and Verdun led the main body of men straight into the chaos that once had been a sleepy little hamlet on the southern edge of Grandaise. The smoke was thickening fast, coming from everywhere. Now and again, the wind rolled back enough of the haze, as they approached, to give them a glimpse of the fighting going on all over the village. It also revealed that there was scarcely a cottage, byre, or shed that hadn’t been set ablaze. Like the attack on the shepherd’s cottage a few days before, this assault was focused more on wanton destruction than thievery.
There were at least a score of brigands, wearing no armor and clad in ragged garments that seemed oddly incongruous on their powerful, muscular frames. Only a few were mounted, but there were a number of horses left in the field
between the village and the forest. They wielded their weighty blades and stout shields with what could only be called restraint against the harrows, sickles, and spades of the cottagers who were trying desperately to defend their homes.
Then as Griffin’s and Verdun’s men charged into the fray, the villagers were quickly pushed aside in the raiders’ eagerness to engage men of battle. It was almost as if the brigands had been waiting for their true opponents.
Griffin drew his blade and saw Verdun drawing his. The men eyed each other as they charged in, wielding swords from horseback, using the advantage of height to rain down heavy blows. Then one of the mounted attackers charged Griffin and soon he was battling eye to eye with a powerfully built swordsman whose choice of weapon and skill in using it spoke of military background and experience in battle. This, he realized, was no ordinary band of brigands and thieves.
The clash of blades and the panicky rearing of horses added to the roar of flames devouring the wooden roofs and starting on the walls of the cottages. The smoke made gauging the progress of the attack impossible. Each man was fighting blind, battling for his life and the chance to go on to the next opponent without knowing whether his side was winning or losing.
The fighting raged for a time, and the smoke and heat began to take a toll on both sides. Shouts came through the smoke and roar, distracting Griffin’s opponent enough for him to find an opening between the cur’s blade and shield. He thrust hard and his blade pierced his opponent’s shoulder, though the man twisted at the last moment to deflect part of the force.
Swaying, the man gripped his saddle and wheeled his mount, heading for the edge of the village. And as Griffin turned his mount and searched the smoke, he saw two more of the marauders racing on foot in the same direction.
They were withdrawing—fleeing!
Giving his mount the spur, he shot toward the western edge of the village and the field where the attackers had left their horses. Several of Grandaise’s and Verdun’s men were giving chase to retreating raiders and Griffin shouted and waved, signaling Axel and Greeve to have their archers take aim on the fleeing men. A hail of arrows caught the brigands by surprise, taking down several. Those who hadn’t already reached their horses abandoned their mounts and made a frantic dash for the trees on foot.
Reynard and the duke had broken off from Griffin’s force with a dozen men and ridden south through the edge of the forest, intending to cut off the attackers’ retreat. The duke suggested that with fields and vineyards to the north and east and a river to the south, the most logical route of escape would be west, into the cover of the forest. Now as the mounted attackers reached the supposed safety of the trees, the trees came alive with Reynard’s and Crossan’s men. Some of the attackers drew blades to defend themselves, while others wheeled and ran for their lives. Soon even those who had begun to fight broke off and fled through the trees with the duke’s men in close pursuit.
Almost as abruptly as it had begun, the fighting was over and the clang of blades and shouts of battle gave way to the hiss and crackle of burning wood and the wails of injured and grieving cottagers.
Griffin sheathed his blade and dismounted. His heart was still pounding and his blood was still roaring in his ears as he bent and braced with his hands on his knees, dragging breath after breath of clean air into his smoke-clogged lungs. Around him his men and Sir Martin and Sir Thomas and their lord were emerging from the pall of smoke to cough out the smoke they had swallowed and gasp fresh air.
As his men recovered, he sent them back into the village to check what was left of the cottages for survivors, report on the wounded, and take stock of the damage. As Griffin’s men began to regroup and tend their own injuries, Verdun, who had inhaled a good bit of smoke, staggered over to Griffin.
“Those brutes were not my men,” he declared in a smoke-strained voice. His expression was grim and he fought to suppress a cough at each breath. Griffin coughed and bent over beside him, breathing, sensing the truth in his words. He had seen Verdun and his men fighting hard, risking injury and death, working to beat back the attackers.
“I know every man in the garrison, Your Lordship,” Martin de Gies said from nearby. “Not one of the men who did this was from Verdun. These men, they fought like—”
“Soldiers,” Griffin finished for both of them. “But they weren’t.”
The brigands were battle hardened and fought with skill and ferocity. But their ragged garments, long, shaggy hair and beards, and grimy, soulless faces … spoke of an undisciplined and unprincipled existence. The cities were full of men like them … deserters, braggarts, and cruel brutes who enjoyed inflicting suffering … men who would do anything for a bit of silver. But they seldom ventured this far into the countryside. Not unless they were hired.
“Milord!” Axel and Greeve hurried toward him with their archers, who were pausing along the way to inspect the fallen brigands for survivors. “It looks as if our archers were a bit too deadly with their aim. We’ve not found any of the curs still alive.”
Suddenly there were shouts from the edge of the forest, across the fields. It was Reynard and the duke, hailing Griffin. He left his mount where it was and hurried across the pasture with Axel and Greeve and their archers hard on his heels. As he approached he saw that there were four bodies sprawled on the ground, three with arrows in their backs.
“We’ve got one alive,” Reynard called, kneeling on one knee to roll the man up onto his side. He froze over the body and Griffin watched the knight cross himself and raise a look of horror to him.
“What is it. Reynard? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s—it’s—”
Griffin looked down and froze himself as an icy finger of recognition dragged through his fire-seared senses. For a moment everything stopped: his breath, his heart, his instinct to reach out, and his impulse to recoil.
There on the ground at his feet was a face he knew better than his own … had trained with and fought with … and trusted.
“Bertrand.” He sank to his knees, staring at those slack features and feeling fully the horror Reynard had exhibited. “Get this arrow out of him!” he commanded furiously, struggling to contain his rising emotions. “It’s Bertrand!”
Two of his archers fell to their knees and tried desperately to remove the arrow one of them had just shot into their old captain. Their hands trembled and Griffin could see when they looked up and reported that they couldn’t remove it, that they were devastated by what they had done. He ordered them to break it off and they complied.
“Bertrand.” Griffin rolled him gently onto his back, careful to avoid the arrow shaft. “Bertrand, can you hear me? It’s Grandaise …”
Bertrand’s eyes opened.
“Milord? Is it really you?” When he focused on Griffin’s face, he raised a hand but didn’t have enough strength to reach it. Griffin clasped his groping fingers with one hand and put his other under Bertrand’s shoulders to hold him.
“Why?” Griffin had to force each word from his constricted throat. “Why did you do this? You were always one I counted on.”
“I didn’t want to. My grandfather … hates you … hates Verdun. Wants you to fight. The land was ours … he says … the forest is again.” He coughed and brought up bubbles of blood. His eyes rolled aimlessly and then closed.
“Bertrand—Bertrand, stay with me. We’ll get you back to Grandaise—”
“He said we must take back our birthright …” Bertrand’s breath began to rattle in his throat. “Never meant to hurt … forgive …”
“Your grandfather—Old Thibault—these are his men? Bertrand, tell me—we must know.” Griffin was both frantic to know and loathe to hear it.
Bertrand nodded and opened his eyes one last time.
“Forgive me, milord … forgive … I beg …”
Grief surged in Griffin with volcanic force. It felt for a moment like his chest might burst. Then he struggled to produce even a whisper.
“I forgive you, Bertrand.”
Bertrand’s face grew peaceful. Then his eyes closed and he was gone.
In the hush that fell, all present crossed themselves and said a prayer for the knight who—unknown to them—had dwelt in two worlds … one of friendship, respect, and loyalty, and the other of covetousness, vengeance, and betrayal.
Griffin staggered to his feet and floundered for a moment, feeling swamped by grief and anger. He looked around him, groping for direction, and found it in the sympathetic eyes and loyal faces of the men who had pledged themselves to him and had faithfully kept those vows.
“You heard?” He looked from Reynard and Crossan to the duke and then to Verdun. “This—the burning—the strife—Old Thibault de Roland is to blame.” He looked to the south and west, the direction the brigands had fled, and realized it was also the direction of Old Thibault’s hall. He looked down at Bertrand, seeing recent events in a new light.
“He was responsible for abducting Julia.”
“He came to me with word of her arrival,” Verdun said, shaking his head. “He often brought me news from Grandaise, late at night. He complained that he was not advanced in your garrison.” He looked chagrined to admit, “I believed him. I promised him a place in my service and a purse to help restore his grandfather’s keep. But after he brought Lady Julia to us, he disappeared. I assumed he went back to Grandaise and that you must have found him out.”
“I did find him out, but only after Julia told us who had abducted her. We looked for him, but he had fled.” Griffin looked at Verdun. “I assumed he came to Verdun, since he was obviously your agent. But it appears he went home to his grandfather instead.” He turned to look at the smoldering village. “They began to raid and burn, knowing we would accuse each other.”
