Then the old man turned upon Catriona, shaking one fist at her while the other locked around some token hung from the chain around Malcolm’s neck. “You would not give it to me, you ungrateful wretch of a child, but you gave it to him!” The old man shouted at Catriona, even as he tugged so hard that the chain broke.
He laughed then, gleeful to have captured the prize. A jeweled cross glimmered in his hand as he backed away, his malicious gaze locking upon Catriona. He was mortal, then, for no Fae would prize a crucifix, no matter its splendor. The man seemed to be unaware of the Fae regents so close behind him, or at least indifferent to their presence, which was another indication that he was not Fae. They watched him, as still as shadows and as silent.
“Aileen should never have taken you into our house when your whore of mother died,” the old man snarled. “She should never have raised you as our own.” He spat on the ground, and Elizabeth felt Catriona flinch. “Spawn of a foreigner, you should have died in your first year, just when your blood mother did.”
Elizabeth did not understand much of this, but for the moment she did not care. The old man stepped back with his prize and Finvarra nodded at the Elphine Queen, indicating that the sacrifice should continue.
But the old man’s manner and his greed gave Elizabeth an idea.
“Do you not seek the blackest soul, my lord king?” she cried on impulse.
Finvarra froze, then slowly turned his attention upon her. Her spirit quailed for she had spoken aloud in the Fae circle, surrendering herself to his power, and they both knew it well. Finvarra’s gaze burned with some emotion, though Elizabeth could not have named it.
Her heart skipped a beat when he smiled.
Still she continued, for she had made the sacrifice now, and she would see both Rafael and Malcolm saved if it could be done. “Should your tithe not be the most wicked soul you can harvest?”
Finvarra’s smile broadened. “Do you not think we chose with care, my Elizabeth?”
She knew he referred to the fact that Malcolm had labored as a mercenary, much as Rafael had done. Her instinct told her that this greedy old man was more wicked than either of them.
“I think that much can change in six months, in our realm,” she dared to say, hoping he would not take Rafael instead. He had fought vigorously in defense of Malcolm’s holding this day, and he had voluntarily stepped into the circle, after all.
Finvarra looked between Malcolm and Rafael, considering. Elizabeth feared she had accomplished naught at all.
Then to her relief, Finvarra looked down at the old man who caressed the cross he had stolen from Malcolm.
When Finvarra smiled and his eyes lit, Elizabeth’s heart nigh stopped. She knew he had chosen and feared the result.
At his gesture, the Elphine Queen offered the cup to the old man. Without hesitation, that man seized the chalice and drank lustily of its contents. Elizabeth nearly wept with relief.
As the man drank his fill, Finvarra’s blade descended with terrifying force. He sliced the old man’s head from his body in one fell stroke. Catriona jumped beside her, clearly startled at the speed with which that man had been dispatched.
Finvarra seized the man’s head, lifting it by the hair so that the golden brew from the chalice fell sparkling to the ground. The expression on the dead man’s face was one of astonishment.
“And so the tithe is paid,” the king intoned, sparing but a glance at Malcolm and another at Rafael before he turned away. He considered Elizabeth, the glint in his eyes making her blood run cold. “And another debt is made,” he added, his words low and silky.
Rafael exhaled in relief, but Elizabeth lifted a finger in warning before he moved. She was already doomed and knew that another violation on her part of the rules by which mortals could escape Fae circles would make no difference. She would not see Rafael sacrificed now!
To her relief, Rafael held his ground, as did Catriona. Praise be that he was an observant man! The Fae court retreated in regal splendor, their quest completed. The four mortals would have to remain as they were for all the night long, until the sun rose in the east, then back out of the circle with care, recalling their course perfectly. Elizabeth could only hope that the other two were cautious.
Malcolm looked to be sleeping, collapsed upon the ground before them. It was disheartening to see her older brother look so vulnerable, but the shadow of death had been pushed back from his brow. It was there, of course, for he was yet mortal, but its darkness had been considerably diminished.
He would have years to savor with Catriona at Ravensmuir.
Because Elizabeth had intervened.
She was awed in hindsight that she had dared to challenge Finvarra, no less that her words had changed his course. The Fae king could have ignored her, claimed her, or destroyed her. On this night, he would have been at the height of his power in the cycle of the year.
But Finvarra had listened to her, just as Rafael had. It was a remarkable thing. There was a power in her words that Elizabeth had never realized. Not once, but twice, she had changed the shape of events by her outspokenness.
She might have been more thrilled with this revelation if she had not feared the price Finvarra might demand of her. Matters were not done between them, and though she feared Finvarra’s intent, something had changed within Elizabeth on this night.
She could influence the choices of others, it was clear, and more, she could shape her own future with an ability she had never imagined she possessed.
Finvarra might be surprised when he chose to collect his due of her.
Indeed, she looked forward to challenging his assumptions.
Just as she looked forward to challenging those of Rafael, now that he was not destined to die and had shown a willingness to acknowledge his own honorable nature. This mercenary showed remarkable promise, to Elizabeth’s thinking. Perhaps, men of honor were not doomed to be so very tedious, after all. She almost smiled at the idea, but as they stood beneath the moon’s light, Rafael showed even greater promise.
Or Elizabeth’s Fae gifts revealed more of his truth to her.
An angel might fearlessly enter this cursed realm, but Rafael was merely a mortal man. Once Malcolm’s soul was saved, Rafael yearned to flee the circle and its horrific visions, but he understood from Elizabeth’s gesture that he must remain motionless.
Or be condemned to remain in this company forever.
He wanted also to tend the slash in his arm, for it was deep and had bled through the bandage of linen he had hastily wrapped around it. It ached and he knew he had to see the wound washed and stitched.
But it had to wait until the dawn, which was when these apparitions would fade. He recalled that from Midwinter and also from Catriona’s tales. He hoped that the delay in treating his own wound, and that of Ranulf, did not lead to dire consequences for either of them.
Any lingering doubt of their location was removed when Rafael’s fallen comrade Franz revealed himself.
Just as he had the last time Rafael had stepped into the realm of these demons.
Hell it was for certain, for Franz was both dead and an unrepentant sinner.
Rafael supposed it was a good sign that Ranulf, who had been so recently injured, was not to be found in this company. That man must yet breathe, which was some solace for Rafael having chosen Malcolm over Ranulf.
Though he could have done without seeing Franz again.
The dead had remained after the other demons retreated with their king. Rafael had not immediately noticed the heavy-set mercenary, not until he stood and turned to leer at Rafael. Eventually, Franz lumbered closer and Rafael dreaded whatever might come of his presence. Franz’s arm was gone, hacked from his body at the shoulder, and his gaze was as baleful as ever it had been.
It was a little too close of a reminder of what might have befallen Rafael on this day. Had his arm been severed, he would not have been so able to defend himself, and might have died in the same way as Franz.
; Franz had been slashed across the torso and even here, his guts spilled forth, just as they had when he had died. Indeed, he carried them in his remaining hand, cradling them close to his body as a woman would carry a babe. Franz looked exactly as he had when Rafael had last seen him—save that he walked, while he had been dead on the ground at that last glimpse.
Any hope that Franz would simply pass Rafael by was destroyed when that mercenary walked straight to him, halted when they were toe to toe, and leered into Rafael’s face.
Franz had not come so close to Rafael six months before and the sight of him had not been so vivid. Rafael might have dismissed this as another trick of the demons, an apparition intended to prod him into moving, but Franz looked to have been exhumed.
He also smelled more foul than Rafael could have believed possible. That specter leaned close as if to ensure that Rafael could not miss the full foulness of his state. There were maggots beneath his skin, writhing there, and Rafael could see bone in more than one place on the dead man’s body. There was dirt smeared on his skin and blood beneath his nails, the mire of the battlefield upon his boots. Rafael knew Franz was dead, yet that man’s corpse stood before him, disgust curling what was left of his lips.
If this was an illusion, it was one well wrought. Rafael, who was seldom troubled by sights of violence, felt his guts churn.
“Better me than you, right?” Franz demanded.
Rafael tightened his lips and did not reply. It had been an easy choice, even knowing that Franz would likely not return from his assignment. Franz had been infinitely more wicked than Rafael, primarily because he had deceived and misled the one woman who had loved him. That, in Rafael’s view, had been beyond reprehensible.
If he had to make the choice again, he would make the same one. Better Franz than Rafael himself. He was unrepentant and time—let alone some gruesome vision—would not change that.
Franz had been the greater sinner.
The other mercenary cast his bleeding guts at Rafael’s boots and his lip lifted in a sneer. “Flinch,” he commanded when Rafael did not move. “Show your cowardice and back away, Rafael Rodriguez. Or shout at me to abandon you.” As Franz spoke, blood spurted from his gullet. Rafael was both horrified enough to want to avert his gaze, and sufficiently transfixed that he could not do so.
What if this was not an apparition? What if this really were Franz? It was horrifying that a man could become such as this, independent of what he had done in his life. Despite the teachings of the church, Rafael had never put much credence in the notion of divine judgment. He could not have done so and earned his way as he had. Rafael had always believed that once a man died, his perception and existence ended.
What if Hell truly existed and was populated by those who had lived before? What if he were to be judged? What if an eternity with Franz was his future? The notion was more sickening than Franz’s state.
“You should say something, or move.” Franz’s voice dropped to a hiss. “I would give much to have you snared in this place with me.” He leaned closer, the smell of him making the bile rise in Rafael’s throat. “Not my soul, of course, for it has been claimed, but I would give whatever else I have. Move, coward. Give me an excuse to trap your faithless soul here with mine.”
Rafael stubbornly kept his silence, though his gut churned. If he vomited, would that count as movement and see him trapped in this place? Rafael did not wish to find out.
At such proximity, he could see that Franz’s eyes were bloodshot, but still beady. “We could talk,” that mercenary invited in the cajoling manner that had seduced Ursula, back in the day. “I could remind you of your sins. The list is sufficiently long that you might have forgotten a few, here and there. My memory is excellent, especially now as there is no ale to be had in this realm. I could prompt your memory when you falter.”
Rafael could well imagine. His own recollection of his sins was long enough—even if the accounting was not complete, it was sufficient to see him damned.
Franz dropped his voice to a hiss. “We could make a list.” He shrugged. “Although it would be too late to repent.”
Rafael stared into the distance, striving to ignore his former comrade.
If he survived this night, would it be too late to repent? He had never considered the option before, imagining it to have little appeal, but a certain maiden’s kiss made him wonder anew.
Better you than me. On this night, seeing what had become of Franz, Rafael felt new guilt. No man deserved this fate.
Franz circled around Rafael, looking for a fight, trying to provoke one exactly as he had done in life. Truly, this could be none other than Franz. “Would that not be a fitting fate for one who deceived another? Would that not be justice for your betrayal?”
Rafael fought the urge to defend himself. He dared not speak aloud!
Franz breathed in his ear. “Yet the dark king chose the old man instead of you. It cannot be that he was a greater sinner. It cannot be that he has more wickedness for which to atone. Oh nay.” Franz shook his head. “It must be because you tricked one of them. Better him than you, right? I am certain you reasoned that he had less to live for at any rate.” His voice became a hiss. “What did you promise the old man, Rafael, to ensure he died instead of you? That pretty cross?” He shook his head, the gesture sending maggots flying. Rafael nearly did flinch when one landed upon his cheek. “My Ursula had a cross just like that. Were you so base as to steal it from her corpse?”
Rafael’s heart skipped a beat, though he struggled to keep his features impassive. He had noticed the similarity between Catriona’s cross and the one he remembered Ursula wearing, but could not explain it. And truly, he could not think straight, much less solve a riddle, with the horror that Franz had become almost touching him.
“You think only of yourself, do you not?” Franz muttered. “I hope you saw some advantage in betraying me. Was it Ursula you coveted above all else?”
Rafael gritted his teeth and remained silent.
Franz whispered in his ear. “You should know that you would not be without company in this place. There are many who know of you here, many who would see a debt repaid.” Franz gestured and a corpse lifted his gaze to meet Rafael’s, his expression baleful.
With a start, Rafael recognized his deceased uncle, just as he had been when he had tried to defend Rafael from the invaders. That man had died for his decision to put himself in the path of those mercenaries in his determination to save his nephew.
Franz dropped the weight of his one arm across Rafael’s shoulders, his manner companionable in death as it had seldom been in life. “One does not expect Hell to be so personal,” he murmured. “Virtually all those you can see are here because of you. Proud of yourself and all you have accomplished? It would be much less crowded in Hell without your efforts, to be sure.”
As far as Rafael could see, Franz spoke the sickening truth.
“Look at those young girls,” Franz continued in his confidential tone, nodding toward a group of young women. His manner was as it had been oft before, when they had entered a town and come upon the local whores, but Rafael knew he had never killed a whore.
Franz, in contrast, had killed a very pretty one in Paris, just to keep her from telling Ursula of his infidelity.
Rafael looked, confident this glance would prove Franz wrong, and his spirit quailed.
They were maidens, too young to be wed, all with dark hair and dark eyes. Their features bore sufficient resemblance that they might have been sisters and with their coloring, they certainly appeared to be his countrywomen. They wept with a vigor that tore his heart, and he counted them, knowing before he was done what the tally would be.
Four maidens, consoling one older woman who might be their mother.
Rafael did not recognize them, he could not have recognized them, but he knew who they had to be. His heart went cold, for these maidens had been the first of his victims.
“They seem to know you, even to mourn
you,” Franz confided. “Did you slaughter all the young novitiates in a convent somewhere? Was that before or after we met?”
Rafael studied the company of the dead with greater interest, and no small measure of horror. He saw the lay brother who had given him extra food in the kitchen of the monastery, as well as the first knight he had ever killed with his own blade.
Of course, he saw Ibrahim, but he glanced over that man and his bleeding wound.
He saw the first warrior who had taken a blow from him, the first soldier whose throat he had slit, the first peasant sent to defend his lord’s holding that Rafael had dispatched to his maker. Once he looked, it was clear the host was seething with those whose lives he had ended, in one way or another. Rafael saw the slaughtered and the fallen, the great teeming hordes of people who had been dispatched by his deeds, his choices and his blade, all of them gathered on the moor outside Ravensmuir’s walls in ominous silence.
The dead survived. Hell was real.
And he would be amongst them soon enough.
One after another, they lifted their heads and stared at him, accusation stealing over their rotted faces, then began to shuffle toward him.
What would they do to him?
How would they have reparation?
“What was your first battle?” Franz taunted. “Where did you first kill and steal? You were with Rodrigo de Villandrando when we met. You and L’Écorcheur were two of a kind, were you not? Two Spanish slaughterers interested only in your personal gain.”
Franz shook his head when Rafael did not speak.
“Vermin,” Franz declared and spat blood on the ground, a ridiculous accusation coming from him. “Was it Treignac where you learned to kill and pillage with him? Meymac?” Franz clicked his tongue. He stepped around Rafael, his guts trailing over Rafael’s boots. “All those innocents, fool enough to own any riches you desired.”
It was better to eye the host of the dead than to look at Franz. Was his father in this horrific company? Rafael would not have recognized that man if he was.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 110
