by Tamara Leigh
“The captain says an hour, providing the heavens do not birth rain and the air does not stir more than already it does.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Durand saw the woman beside him lean toward Sir Norris. Unable to catch her whispered words, he said, “’Tis time to depart for the docks.”
The breeze tossed and the sun lit the clouds as they exited the inn with Durand and his men at the fore, The Vestal Widow and her father’s men center, and the baron and his knights at the rear.
It was well they did not go into that foul-smelling street with arrogant confidence. Though the inn was chosen for its wide, well-lit approach and proximity to the docks, those who converged on them front and back chanced what they should not despite outnumbering the ten tasked with protecting the lady bound for England.
Before Durand clearly saw the one rushing toward him past fleeing passers by, he knew their attackers were Count Verielle’s men. He dropped his pack, thrust his mantle off his shoulders so it draped his back to provide his arms full range of movement, and drew his sword.
As the ring of chain mail and blades leaving scabbards were nearly muted amid Durand’s and Wulfrith’s shouted orders, The Vestal Widow’s men moved her to the side, allowing her remaining escort space in which to defend her.
The bearded knight, whose face evidenced bruises and swellings dealt by the boots of the lady he had sought to abduct, ran forward.
The clash of their swords overhead jarred Durand, his opponent having the advantage of bulk. However, the man lacked the Wulfen training necessary to withstand the strain of nearly displaced bones and the burn of muscles. And when Durand swept his blade off the other’s, it was his greater speed and agility that allowed him to draw first blood.
The knight raged, and with the sliced flesh of his collarbone staining his tunic, came again.
Durand deflected the swing, and as he spun around, saw Wulfrith deal a killing blow to his own opponent. The baron’s men and Durand’s quickly thinning the threat of harm to The Vestal Widow, a glance in her direction assuring him her men held off Count Verielle’s, Durand evaded the blade seeking his neck.
Though his next swing connected, he had only the satisfaction of bleeding the knave’s forearm, the man’s chain mail a barrier to the heart of which so foul a being was undeserving.
Then Durand bled, causing his opponent to shout as the end of his swing and the beginning of his next flecked his face with crimson droplets.
Durand wasted no moment determining the severity of the injury to his lower leg. He lunged and retaliated with a slice that snapped the other man’s head up and back, made him stumble and drop his sword, and clap a hand to his throat as if that might turn back the tide.
When the bearded knight crashed to his knees, Durand turned to the attacker who sought to engage one of The Vestal Widow’s men. “Here!” he shouted and leapt over another fallen enemy.
His new opponent came around. And met his end on Durand’s sword that so easily penetrated chain mail there was no doubt the armor was in poor repair.
But there were more who aspired to deliver the lady to Count Verielle though they should have retreated as they had on the day past. Either their reward for success was great or punishment for failure dire.
Confirming Wulfrith held his own, Durand moved to intercept two of the enemy who moved toward Sir Norris and glimpsed the lady where she pressed herself to a wall behind her father’s knight.
Eyes wide, she clutched a dagger. Against sword-bearing men, it would be ineffectual, but he admired her attempt to protect herself rather than succumb to shrieking and weeping.
Moments later, he put down one of the two who sought her, and when Sir Norris toppled the other, turned back to assist his own men. They fought well, but though the contest would be over soon, he would not risk any suffering dire injury or death.
But just as he set himself at the soldier who drew blood from Sir Jessup’s arm, Wulfrith bellowed, “The lady, Durand!”
He swung around. She and her men had abandoned their packs and were running toward the docks, retreating as if Count Verielle’s men were winning the day. And he knew what Wulfrith knew. Here was their opportunity to resume the secretive journey that had set them across King Henry’s lands, the same which could render impotent the missive the queen had entrusted Durand to deliver to the lady’s father.
Feeling the presence of that sealed document in his purse, he looked back at his former liege and saw the baron had landed a blow that dropped his opponent onto his face.
“Go!” Wulfrith shouted and lunged forward to aid Sir Jessup.
As Durand dodged carts and cowering citizens, he felt the injury to his leg but did not let it slow him. Upon reaching the docks, he saw the lady’s destination was its farthest end. Beyond the ship that was to have transported her across the channel, another sat at anchorage—a black-hulled thing of the sort that harried other ships, preferably French, and of which King Henry did not openly approve. Were stolen cargo in its hold, it was likely of less value than what was paid to wait upon The Vestal Widow. And if Durand did not reach her before she gained a rowboat to deliver her to a ship of thieves, he would fail his queen.
He ground his teeth, and as he stretched his legs longer, Sir Norris sounded the alarm that caused the knights on either side of him to turn back.
It mattered not whether they were a match for one trained at Wulfen. They need only slow Durand long enough to see the lady and Sir Norris into a boat headed for the ship whose deck had come alive in preparation to sail.
“Fool woman!” Durand growled. Did she not consider the danger of entrusting her person to men of ill repute, and more so now she had only one knight to protect her?
Dear Lord, a better name for her is The Vexing Widow.
Hoping he would not have to severely injure the young knights advancing on him, he pounded the boards beneath his feet.
Though his opponents maintained a united front, forcing him to fend off two swords and dealing him a cut across the forehead, neither were as fortunate with the injuries dealt them, and it but took the thrust of a shoulder to send the bloodiest into the water.
“The same end for you,” Durand growled as the other knight danced back in search of space in which to wield his sword, while beyond him the lady and Sir Norris had reached a rowboat.
Ignoring his pained leg, Durand rushed forward, slammed his blade so hard against his opponent’s that the knight’s sword flew from his hand, then also sent him into the water.
But not soon enough. Sir Norris pushed the boat off the dock, and the oarsman set to traversing the distance to the ship.
Durand sped toward the nearest rowboat. “Make ready!” he shouted and, when the two oarsmen only stared, hauled one up by the neck of his tunic. “Get in and row!”
“B-but sire,” the other stammered, “one does not approach that ship without permission.”
“You have my permission.” He thrust the younger one toward the boat and all three boarded.
With two rowing, it was possible to overtake The Vestal Widow. Had there been another set of oars, there would have been no question of doing so. However, did Durand fail to reach the ship ere the lady and her man boarded, he was not without hope.
Providing the weather continued to distance itself from the mild thing it had presented at dawn, the ship would not venture far from land. It would drop anchor farther out, giving Durand time to enlist the aid of those eager to aid Queen Eleanor’s man—and drag the lady off the ship kicking and screaming, if need be.
As the first boat neared its destination, a rope ladder cascaded down the ship’s side.
“Sir Norris!” Durand shouted, but the knight who stood before the lady did not look around.
“Faster!” Durand commanded the rowers, and readying himself to follow The Vestal Widow up the ladder, shoved his sword in its scabbard.
Despite the churning water, the boat ahead smoothly slid up against the ship’s hull, and the lady rose and reached for
the ladder.
“Lady!” Durand shouted.
As if she did not hear, she began her ascent.
“Lady Beata!”
She stilled, and her head came around so sharply her veil escaped its pins and began a slow, fluttering descent to the sea. Across the distance closing between them, their eyes met. Likely, she was as surprised as he that her name came off his lips. But if that was what it took to reach the ladder before it was pulled up...
“Go, my lady!” Sir Norris called as he climbed after her.
She did as bid, but as the second rowboat replaced the one starting back for the docks, Durand snatched hold of the ladder and, telling himself there would be time aplenty to feel the pain of his injury, hauled himself upward.
At the railing above, men lifted The Vestal Widow over the side, then reappeared to assist Sir Norris, whose lower foot was within Durand’s reach.
Durand gripped a rung tight with one hand and turned his other around the man’s ankle and yanked.
The knight cursed, kicked, and attempted to add to the damage The Vestal Widow had done Durand’s face.
Seeing those above reach to Sir Norris, determined he would not play again the game by which he had wrested The Vestal Widow from the bearded knight, Durand yanked harder. But this time he lost as the seamen hauled the knight off the ladder.
He followed. Not because the boat that had delivered him had pushed away from the dreaded ship. Because having reclaimed much of his honor these past years, he could not bear to be found unworthy again. He had to try though he could bring no weapon to hand until he was aboard.
He reached the railing and butted his forehead into the nose of a narrow-faced seaman who believed he, alone, could prevent a knight from boarding. Pain shot through Durand’s skull and blurred his vision, but as the man reeled backward, he swung himself over the railing and drew his sword.
He had only a moment to locate the lady who stood wide-eyed alongside Sir Norris before being forced to turn his attention to the half dozen coming for him wielding swords, daggers, and pikes.
Beware the odds, one of Baron Wulfrith’s lessons resounded through him as he swept up his sword.
Hopeless odds. Regardless of his Wulfen training, he was outnumbered, not only by those drawing near, but the rest of the crew who seemed content to watch the slaughter of however many of their fellows it took to gut a knight.
But there was naught for it. Entrusted with delivering The Vestal Widow to her father, honor bade him retake ground the treacherous lady and Sir Norris had stolen, even if he let his life upon this deck.
He adjusted his stance, picked out the three who would die ahead of him, and started toward the nearest whose pike sought to put him through.
“Do not!” the lady cried, and Durand saw Sir Norris snatch her back so forcefully she dropped to her knees. Straining against his hold, she reached toward the murderous men. “Death need not be the end of this!”
Her words reminded Durand of another lesson. Ofttimes, victory gained at the point of words rather than blades is more godly, Squire Durand.
But before the knight he had become could determine how to apply it, the seaman wielding a pike lunged.
Durand sidestepped, clenched his jaws as pain shot up his leg, and landed his blade a foot back from the pike’s point. The weapon spun out of the seaman’s hands, forcing Durand to duck as it sailed over the railing into the sea.
Another attacked, but a slice to the forearm caused the man to lose his grip on a wickedly long dagger. The weapon landed near Durand, and after kicking it behind, he braced himself for a sword-wielding youth whose pink grin showed he possessed few teeth.
The rusted and nicked blade begging to be broken, Durand obliged. As the youth stared at the hilt left to him, Durand grabbed him and spun him to face his mates, pinning him with an arm against the neck and a sword to his belly.
“I would speak with your captain,” Durand shouted. “I am King Henry and Queen Eleanor’s man, tasked with delivering the lady to her father.” He jutted his chin at The Vestal Widow whom Sir Norris continued to restrain. “She is in no danger from me.”
“And yet she seeks to escape you,” said one who leaned a shoulder against a mast. “Curious.”
Durand assessed him. Not what one expected of a man who led others in the plunder of ships, often at the expense of lives. He was thick but short, face fleshy rather than hard-edged, and voice pitched somewhere between a boy’s and a man’s. But the teeth flashed in a grin were right, those still set in his jaw discolored.
He straightened from the mast and ambled forward. “It matters not to me who is in the right. What matters is the second half of the payment due upon delivery of the lady to England. Have you that amount upon your person and a means of preventing me from relieving you of it, you may take her. Otherwise, we set sail.” He shifted his gaze to the docks. “And soon. Your men will not be long in coming to your aid.”
Durand had no reason to chance verifying that, certain the baron and knights had put an end to Count Verielle’s men and followed. But unlike Durand, no effort would be wasted on rowboats whose occupants would have no means of boarding since the rope ladder would be taken up before another boat could come alongside. Baron Wulfrith would give chase in the ship that was to return him to his family.
Shouting for the anchor to be raised, the captain halted ten feet from Durand. Letting the sword at his side hang, he said, “As much as I value the lad for keeping us off the rocks many a time”—he flicked his eyes to the youth—“I’m more partial to my neck. Thus, kill him if you must but, dead or alive, you shall go into the sea.”
The threat had too much substance. Though most of the crew were dispersing, Durand remained outnumbered, the injury to his leg felt beyond the burn. Not only did the shifting deck threaten his balance, but the loss of blood clouded his vision and loosened his grip on his sword.
Were he tossed over the side and able to shed his chain mail, he swam well enough to reach the docks. But consciousness waned. It would be a dead man who went down into the dark, chill water.
Not alone, helplessness demanded what little revenge could be had while he yet breathed. But another of Wulfrith’s lessons begged an audience—that which told death should be dealt only in the absence of choice. He had violated that lesson, most notably in slaying the man who had tried to murder the woman he loved, but he would not do so again.
He thrust the young seaman away and took a step back to gain the railing’s support.
Dear Lord, my blade is heavy, he lamented as the enemy rushed forward and their captain smiled. Then a fist snapped back his head.
He heard a clatter he guessed was his sword, and as his arms were gripped to send him into the sea, he closed a hand over the Wulfrith dagger of which he ever aspired to be worthy. Just before taking another fist to the face, he saw The Vestal Widow break from Sir Norris, her mouth wide with a cry.
Then nothing, and his last thought was wonder over whether it was the black of unconsciousness embracing him or the sea.
CHAPTER SIX
His leg was all she had of him, and though the elbow of one of those lifting him over the railing struck her in the mouth and Sir Norris’s arm pulled at her waist, she held on.
“I tell you, do not!” she screamed across the blood of a split lip. “He will die!”
“My lady, come away!” Sir Norris dragged harder, the pressure of his arm threatening the contents of her belly. “There is naught you—”
“Captain!” She snapped her chin around. “Twice what is owed you. Twice, I vow!”
He arched an eyebrow, and as Sir Durand was pulled out of her hold and she fell backward, commanded, “Halt!”
Having taken Sir Norris to the deck with her, she scrambled off and looked to the seamen who had only to open their hands to send the knight down into the sea.
“Twice?” the captain said.
“My father will pay it!” And with little argument, she suspected. Sir
Durand being a favorite of the queen, if the Baron of Wiltford’s plotting was responsible for his death, the entirety of what he hoped to pass to those of his blood would likely be lost.
The captain looked to his men. “There is profit in sparing the knight a watery grave. Deliver him to the lady’s cabin and bind him.”
Grumbling abounded, but Sir Durand came off the railing. As the men carried him past Beata with wide strides to compensate for the deck’s movement, she looked closer at his blood-stained chausses that evidenced his clash with Count Verielle’s men. The spilled blood surely as responsible for his loss of consciousness as the seamen’s blows, his leg was in need of tending.
Then there was the slash across his forehead. When the whole of her name passing his lips brought her head around as she scaled the ladder, she had bemoaned the injury that might mar his countenance. Fortunately, it appeared only surface deep, similar to the scratches she had dealt him.
“Hold!” the captain ordered the men carrying Sir Durand, then stepped near and removed the knight’s belt from which hung the Wulfrith dagger and a thick purse.
“Those belong to Sir Durand!” Beata protested.
“No longer, my lady.” The captain motioned his men to continue and fastened the belt around his waist.
“Captain—”
“Speak no more!” Sir Norris gripped her arm as if for fear she would set upon the one who was to deliver them across the narrow sea.
Wiping the back of a hand across her bloodied lip, Beata watched the captain cross the deck, snatch up Sir Durand’s sword, and slide it in its scabbard.
He turned back and raised an eyebrow. “I may be persuaded to return these—for a price.” He chuckled, but his mirth dissolved as the ship heaved. “Sir Norris, the sea is less and less of a mind to be crossed. As we must stay ahead of your pursuers, see the lady below deck.”
“Come.” The knight pulled her around and guided her to a small, lantern-lit cabin that smelled of things she did not care to think on.
One of two who had carried Sir Durand from the deck was on his haunches behind the knight he secured to a post that supported one end of a swinging bed. He jerked a knot into the rope around Sir Durand’s wrists, straightened, and as he stepped past Beata, ran his eyes down her with such familiarity she felt as if unclothed.
