“My morals are at war with themselves, dear father. Should I betray the princess who has been a true and faithful friend? Should I destroy her life, and the life of both her child and mine? Or should I kill my father, the man who bred me, then treated me with less care than a cur in his kennel?” Two pairs of green eyes locked in battle. “Do the correct thing, Wenthaven. Save me from making the choice. Drop the parchment.”
His amusement was almost palpable, yet she couldn’t help but wonder at him. He glittered with an almost frantic intensity. His armor, though light, was complete, and he wore the weapons of a warrior. It was as if he anticipated battle—a battle he could not lose.
“What would you do with the letter if I dropped it?” he asked.
“Burn it.” At his chuckle she went on, “It’s going to burn. Either I will burn it, or Henry will burn it when he burns your castle, your crops, and your vassals in their beds.”
“Don’t listen to her, Wenthaven!” Cecily cried. “Your own daughter doubts your power and betrays you in her faith.”
With one glance Marian summed up Cecily’s triumph. The stupid girl stood on a bench for a better view and baited them like a spectator at a bull and bear exhibition.
Not even Wenthaven’s curt, “Shut your mouth,” could dim Cecily’s glow. No wonder, for Wenthaven accused Marian, “You have such faith in Henry Tudor.”
“I have faith in the men who follow him.”
From outside the window, a shout briefly distracted Wenthaven, but he returned his attention to Marian. “Griffith ap Powel is dead.”
“There are others like him.”
“You?” he sneered. Pure reflexive anger almost pushed the point into his throat, and again his teeth gleamed. “In sooth, you’ve become Henry’s champion.”
She realized it was true. If Lionel was not to be on the throne, then Henry was her choice. He was strong and stable. He had married Elizabeth, who would serve justice as best she could. He had begun a dynasty to rule a sore and aching England. Her fingers loosened on the grip, and she balanced it correctly again. “If I am Henry’s champion, then I will fight to the death for him.”
“A wager of battle? A trial by arms? How English. How plebeian.” With the faint scrape of steel, Wenthaven pulled his sword from its scabbard. “How right.”
She didn’t know why, but she was surprised. Horrified, even. Aye, perhaps Wenthaven had treated her with less attention than one of his curs, but he was her father. She had thought he wouldn’t pull steel on her in menace, but betrayal piled on betrayal.
“Have you changed your mind?” Wenthaven asked in a mocking tone.
But his attention was only half on her as one shout from outside the window multiplied into a dozen. Honey whined, demanding entrance.
“Nay, not so.” She wet her dry lips. “A challenge, Wenthaven. We fight to the death. We fight for the proof of marriage. If you die, I will burn the parchment. If I die, you will use it. So place it on the hearth, dear father, where the winner may easily seize it.”
“On the hearth?” The blades met, and his dimples flashed. “I taught you what you know, and in all our bouts you have never succeeded in disarming me. Have you learned so much? Have you such faith in your swordsmanship?”
“I do,” she said, gathering her skirt over her arm. “Don’t you?”
He seemed to consider, and Cecily burst out, “Don’t do it, Wenthaven. It’s a trick! Don’t be a fool.”
Cecily was, without a doubt, the fool, and Marian blessed her for it.
“Cecily, you prove your own stupidity,” Wenthaven snarled. “My daughter may wish to trick me, but I am yet the master.” Sidling to the hearth, his sword still pointed at Marian, he placed the parchment on the stones. “Leave it,” he commanded when Cecily made a move toward it. “Leave it. Either I will pick it up and use it, or Marian will have it and burn it—and the other will no longer care.”
Marian had won the greatest of the concessions. Now she must utilize it, but she experienced no jubilation. No doubt heaven would be a better place, but until she witnessed Griffith’s lifeless body, she could not easily relinquish the earth. Justice sometimes required sacrifice, though, and sacrifice required blood.
That blood thrummed in her ears as her own death toll rang in the rhythm of her heart. She leaped toward Wenthaven, her sword as liquid and shining as quicksilver. He met her thrust, but barely, and an unrestrained oath slipped from his lips. He regained his balance, and his sword shot out, an extension of his arm, slashing her skirt and…her arm?
She lifted it, half expecting to see a bloody stub, but as close as he’d come, he’d not nicked her. Watching her from beneath heavy lids, Wenthaven commanded, “Tear it off completely.”
She stared, uncomprehending.
“Your skirt,” he said. “Tear it short so you don’t have to hold it. I would not have it said I won with an unfair advantage.”
Only Wenthaven would worry about such a thing. Only Wenthaven had the precision to complete that blow. Frightening, to think she might have lost before she began.
“Do it,” he commanded.
Nodding, she took the material and ripped along the weft until it reached just below her knees.
He had inflicted no tangible damage, but the sword thrust had been a blow to her ego—he hoped. He hoped it would be sufficient to make her discontinue this futile action. He hoped that if she were not convinced physically, she could be convinced verbally.
Not that he cared about Marian, disobedient, disrespectful offspring that she was. Nay, ’twas simply that he dreaded the prospect of taking her child—indeed, any child—under his wing. Especially a child who wailed for a dead mother.
He’d proved himself inadequate to that task once before.
The shouting in the bailey grew into a roar. Damn Cledwyn—couldn’t he keep his men under control until Wenthaven had finished his business here? A pox on them all—he’d deal with them later. “Do we begin again?” he asked Marian.
“I’m ready,” she answered.
Her steady, bleak stare disturbed him. It reminded him of one of his spaniels when she had been mauled by a wolf—facing death with the satisfaction of knowing she had done what was required of her. Wanting to smash that inclination, wanting to give Marian every chance, he launched a brilliant attack—brilliant even in his own eyes.
He maneuvered her across the room to the door and held her captive against the wood with a series of thrusts so quick that they created a cage around her. He would have held her there longer, but the sounds of their swordwork drove Honey to a frenzy of barking, and he feared the dog would leap off the unrailed landing in her excitement. So he allowed Marian to disable him temporarily with an unexceptional parry.
An unexceptional parry that drew blood, he noted with disgust. “I’m slipping,” he said as crimson trickled from his wrist up his arm and dripped in tiny splashes from his elbow.
“I’m good,” she answered.
“Conceit.”
“Truth.”
Pride was the beginning of her downfall. Wenthaven noted it and gloated. Thrusting, thrusting, he worked her until she had to do more than parry—she had to fight, and fight to win.
Her chest began the work of a bellows. Sweat trickled in her eyes, and a determined smile curved her lips. It required all of her concentration to retain her sword and her life. He observed her as he maneuvered her over to the bed, where Lionel slept the sleep of the innocent. The proximity to the lad distracted her, he noted with satisfaction. She watched her footing with exceptional care and fought in silence so as not to disturb the lad.
Wenthaven understood the feeling. Honey roused just such an emotion in him, and he ached for the dog now clawing at the wooden flooring, trying to dig her way beneath the door. To his surprise, he also ached for Marian, fighting a losing battle for her honor.
Surely if he defeated her now, he wouldn’t have to kill her. Surely the humiliation would be enough to turn her, for now the duel p
umped excitement through her veins, and the pleasure of combat chipped away at her stoic resignation.
He’d won the greatest part of the conflict—Marian struggled to live again.
Now he had to persuade her to do his bidding. Persuasion would work with her, he assured himself. She was his daughter. She could be swayed with persuasion.
Employing the voice he used so successfully when taming a skittish bitch-dog, he said, “You don’t yet understand your position. I have the proof of marriage. With that proof in hand, I can—and will—topple Henry from his throne.”
He maneuvered her to the open window, hoping to awaken her good sense. But the breeze carried the screech of metal and wood as the drawbridge was lowered. What were those mercenary morons doing? he wondered.
“Not easily,” she said, panting.
“Aye, easily.”
“You lie…to yourself. You spend too much time here.” She stabbed the air beside his head as she stumbled on a silver ball. A bell tinkled as it rolled, and she righted herself. “Has it never occurred to you…your spies are telling you what you wish to hear?”
He didn’t like that and slashed harder. “What do you mean?”
“The countryside—settled. The townfolk—satisfied. You’ll not easily…raise an army. The great nobles grow wealthy…under Henry.” She struggled to keep up with his intensified attack, but she used precious breath to gasp, “Go out into…the land, Wenthaven, and you’ll see…I’m right.”
She was tricky. Trickier than he’d realized. Would she undermine his confidence with her babblings?
She would not. But she required close observation, as did the idiots outside who were even now yelling words he couldn’t quite hear. Anxious to overcome her, he said, “I’ll ignore your foolishness, if you’ll come with me as a convenience for the care of the child.”
Her smile, so much like his own, flashed dimples at him. “If I’m…a convenience…why are we fighting?”
The forgotten Cecily demanded, “Aye, why?”
Annoyed beyond good sense, Wenthaven snapped, “Cecily! Get out of here.” He saw her from the corner of his eye, standing on a bench by the door, avid elation gleaming in her eyes. “Out,” he said. “Out, out, out!”
“But Wenthaven…”
God’s teeth, how he hated whimpering women! “Out!” he roared, his sword dipping wildly. “Get out of here.”
Cecily began to sob loudly, which sent the dog into a frenzy. The noise outside grew in volume and in dissonance, and Wenthaven cursed.
But Marian didn’t take advantage of his distraction. She seemed too enthralled with the action in the bailey. Placing her sword against the wall, she leaned out the window. “They’ve lowered the drawbridge, and there’s a huge troop of knights riding into the bailey.”
“Those imbeciles!”
Wenthaven leaped toward her and tried to shoulder her aside, but Marian fought for her place. “By my troth, Wenthaven, there’s one horseman who’s trouncing your mercenaries. He—”
She stepped back. Her hand flew to her heart. She choked as if she’d swallowed wrong, and Wenthaven gave her a hearty slap on the back before taking her place.
He realized at once she had tricked him. No troop of knights flooded his bailey, but the drawbridge wavered up and down as if someone fought for mastery of the levers. Yet she hadn’t lied about the lone horseman. He wore only leather armor and carried a shield, but he was a knight, and one of Henry’s best. He wielded a sword with one hand, disabling mercenaries with mighty swings while defending himself with the other. Under his able guidance, the horse, too, was a weapon, lashing out with hooves and teeth.
“Who is that man?” he demanded of no one in particular.
“Wenthaven?” Cecily’s voice wavered.
“Get out, Cecily,” he commanded. Another man joined the lone horseman from outside, but he rode toward the manor, away from the fight, and Wenthaven found his attention again stolen by the knight. “He looks familiar,” he fretted.
“Wenthaven?” Cecily said again.
Turning with a flourish, he snapped, “I’m being invaded, you stupid—”
He froze.
His daughter, his bitch-daughter, held the proof of marriage in her hand and placed it on the hottest blue coals even as he watched.
“Nay!” he screamed, racing toward her.
Marian’s eyes widened, then in defiance she pressed his most precious parchment into the fire. He again screamed, “Nay!” and grabbed her hair even as Cecily opened the door to run.
Honey, frantic for her master, sprinted for him and jumped, knocking him aside and loosening his grip.
Marian fell backward, then forward, again shoving the parchment deep among the coals. After throwing the dog against the wall, Wenthaven knocked Marian aside with one wholehearted blow of the arm and reached into the flames.
Too late.
Greedy now, the fire captured the parchment in a miniature conflagration. Briefly the words shone dark, the smoke billowed, and it was gone.
“Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.” He’d have taken England. He’d have owned England. Nobles would have bowed down to him. Peasants would have groveled. He’d have been rich and powerful. So powerful.
Again he looked at the flames, seeking what was not there. Gone without a trace.
“Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.” Beating on his leg, Wenthaven chanted as if it would ease him.
But nothing would ease him. Nothing but her destruction.
Marian’s destruction. The sight of her lifeless body—smashed on the stones of the tower floor far below.
Marian could hear someone crying. Lionel crying.
She could hear him. She needed to go to him, but her vision wavered, and she couldn’t rise.
The pain in her hand was too great. The pain in her head was too great. She needed to get off the floor and run. She needed to get off the floor and snatch Lionel to safety. But she couldn’t seem to move her legs. She had to. She had to. Hurry, before he came after them. Before he came after her…
“Marian.”
It was Wenthaven. It was her father. She’d thought he wanted to kill her, but he had never talked to her in that benign tone before. She’d heard him use it, but when?
“Marian?” he crooned again.
So kind, so gentle. When had she heard him sound like this?
“Come, Marian.”
Groggily she lifted her head away from the stone wall and looked up into his eyes—and remembered when. When he’d taken a dog unfit for breeding to be destroyed.
“Stand, Marian.”
He held his sword pointed at her breast. Poised to plunge cleanly into her heart, it created a summons she could not ignore. Using the wall for support, she crawled up until she faced him. In the doorway, Cecily watched, awed at last by that which she could not comprehend. On the floor, Honey ran in limping circles and yelped. On the bed, Lionel watched solemnly, used to seeing his mother facing a sword, unaware of any consequences.
She should reassure him, but Marian could do nothing more than stare at Wenthaven. Stare at her death.
“Wenthaven.” Her gravelly voice seemed clogged with tears. “In the name of our sweet Savior, Wenthaven…”
“You’ll face our Savior soon enough.”
Knees trembling, she sidled along the wall. “You’ll burn in hell if you do this.”
“What news? I am in hell.” He curled his fingers into a fist. “I held it in my hand, and my own vanity let it slip away. My vanity, and your treachery.”
Reaching the wall’s juncture, she slid into the corner and out again, heading for the door.
“What happened to your misplaced honor?” Wenthaven still spoke softly, slowly, inciting faith by his very manner. “I trusted you would leave it in place until we had finished the bout.”
“My honor told me I had to burn it, even if my reward was death.” She wrapped her fingers around the wooden sill, and beside her Cecily stepped out of the way. “My honor told
me that was my highest mission.”
His fury slipped its bounds, and he cried, “A woman’s honor!”
Amazingly, she found a smile. “Aye, a woman’s honor!”
“Then die for your woman’s honor.”
Beneath the direction of his sword, she stumbled onto the landing.
“Step back,” he said.
She glanced over the edge of the wooden platform. A hole spiraled down so far, she couldn’t see the bottom.
The point of the sword gently touched her throat, then retreated. “Step back,” he insisted. “Step all the way back—into eternity.”
Her heel met the air and her toes curled within her shoes. Keeping a desperate balance, she watched in horrified fascination as the shining tip came closer and closer.
“The stones below have welcomed other bodies.” The tip began to tremble. “Your mother met her end there, and gossip claims I killed her, but nay. She died, and so dying, escaped me.”
She looked at him. He looked at her. The tip straightened, and his eyes narrowed. No pity, no hope, no escape. Only a faint surprise.
Yet slowly, he withdrew the sword. “I cannot do it.”
“Do it.” Cecily’s whisper hung in the air like the stink of rotting cabbage.
He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “It’s as if I hear her still, making me vow to protect you always, to make you strong.”
“Kill her.” It was a goad.
He answered Cecily this time. “I can’t kill her. She’s her mother’s daughter.”
“Well, I can!”
Action suited words. Cecily ran toward her, hands outstretched.
There was nowhere to go.
Marian teetered, arms flailing. A hand grabbed her bodice and pitched her toward safety. An arm barred Cecily from completing the act.
The world spun, and Marian hit the boards atop a thrashing body.
Cecily.
A thudding sound assaulted her. A grunting.
She knew the sound. She dreaded it.
Rolling, she grasped the edge of the landing and looked. Wenthaven rolled down the spiral stairs, limp, no longer the puppeteer but the puppet. His head struck the wall repeatedly. He was unconscious.
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