The Mercenary: Order of the Broken Blade

by Mecca, Cecelia

  “Will we travel all night?” she asked some time later.

  It was only then Guy realized she was likely unused to riding long distances. A damned inconvenience.

  “Aye,” he said, ignoring her wiggling in the saddle.

  When she failed to voice a complaint, he reluctantly added, “We should arrive at St. Mary’s-upon-Kingsgate well before sunrise.”

  “Another abbey?”

  He slowed then, turning to his companion.

  “We made a bargain, my lady. And I mean to honor it. A priest resides there, too ill to travel but well enough to perform a quick wedding ceremony.”

  It struck Guy that they’d stopped moving. He must have given Arion the command to halt without realizing it. Sabine’s grip on his waist slacked as he watched her. Her full lips flattened—she understood what he meant, although he couldn’t tell how she felt about it.

  He may be a cad, but he would never shy from his word, once given. And though he hardly knew this vision in a nun’s habit, the very one who’d blackmailed him into their current situation, they would marry that night. He cared little for the idea of her Lord Burge making any claims on her while she remained under his care.

  In the meantime . . .

  “Wedding ceremony.”

  “Aye, my lady. ’Twas a condition of your terms, was it not?”

  She lifted her chin. “Sabine.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sabine. If we are to be wed, you should continue to call me by my given name.”

  He laughed. Hard. As heartily as the time Terric and Conrad took a dunk in a river they’d been crossing, one pulling the other down as he and Lance watched in amusement. This journey may take longer than he’d anticipated, but it would certainly be more enjoyable for her company.

  Chapter 7

  Who was this man, truly?

  Sabine followed him into the second abbey just as the sun began to rise. This one was small, just two buildings and a chapel. And even though they could not possibly know she’d escaped from Holybourne the previous night, her legs felt heavier and heavier with each step toward the small stone building.

  When a woman appeared at the door, fully dressed despite the hour, Sabine knew immediately this was the Reverend Mother. Her eyes widened upon seeing Sabine standing behind Guy.

  “Apologies for the hour,” he began, Guy’s tone shockingly sweet, “but will you please send for Father Wheeland? Tell him Guy Lavallais requests his presence in the chapel. We shall meet him there.”

  With a slight bow, he turned and began to walk toward that very place. Sabine stood stock-still, she and the Reverend Mother staring at each other. Eventually the nun turned without a word back into the building, leaving Sabine to follow Guy toward the darkened chapel.

  Nay, not darkened. As they entered, wall torches on either side of the altar lent an eerie glow to the early morning scene. Small, like the rest of St. Mary’s, it was nevertheless well-appointed.

  Sabine took a seat on the closest bench, weary from riding all night. Her backside screamed in protest even though she sat near the very edge of the seat.

  He was watching her, those variegated eyes studying her.

  Was she really going to marry this man? A stranger. A mercenary. A traitor to the king?

  Aye. The alternative was one she’d been living these past months, and it was unacceptable.

  “Reconsidering?”

  He strode toward her, sitting on the bench opposite her.

  “Nay. Are you?”

  He looked as if she’d offended him. “If you are truly in danger of pursuit from Lord Burge while you are in my care, then my mission is in danger of discovery.”

  She supposed that was a nay.

  “Why do you believe this priest will marry us without preparation at such an hour?”

  He smiled. Not just any smile, but a knowing one that told her clearly she did not want the answer to that question.

  So he had information on this priest. Or something equally nefarious.

  “Who are you?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Guy Lavallais of Cradney Wrens. Half English and half French, courtesy of my mother. Born and raised a mercenary, like my father. Blackmailed into marriage by a lovely nun who, by the by, is wearing a habit to her own wedding.”

  Sabine winced. To hear what she’d done in such terms . . .

  Nay, she would not apologize. To him. To herself. She’d done what was needed, and her father had always said that women apologize far too often.

  Sabine reached up to remove the headdress. She’d become so accustomed to wearing it, she had completely forgotten it was there.

  A voice from behind stopped her.

  “What urgent business demands such an early waking for an old man?”

  The priest wasn’t happy. But he was indeed old. Dressed in a brown robe that looked as if he’d worn it every day for many years, the white-haired man ambled toward them, stopping when Sabine turned to face him.

  “Good morn, Father.” Guy stood. “If you’ll see to the business of my marriage vows, I would be grateful for it.”

  Sabine nearly burst into laughter at the man’s stricken expression. For the rest of her days she would remember the shock on his face.

  “You go too far this time, Lavallais. I certainly cannot perform such a deed—”

  “She is no nun.” Guy frowned. “An oblate. And not of her choosing.”

  Sabine stood and made her way toward the ancient priest.

  “Greetings, Father.” Should she share her name? She glanced back at Guy, who nodded to indicate it was indeed safe. Of course, if this man was to marry them, he would certainly need it.

  “Lady Sabine de Stuteville. I was indeed an oblate and did not enter the vocation of my own volition.”

  He did not appear convinced.

  “And you take this man,” he said none too kindly, “as your husband willingly?”

  His tone gave her pause. The priest obviously knew Guy, though their relationship did not seem an overly friendly one.

  She wondered briefly what her parents would have thought of this decision. Would they have approved? Certainly Guy was not the type of man they’d have chosen for her husband, but neither would they have wished for her to be trapped inside a nunnery.

  Thankfully, this was nothing more than a temporary condition.

  “Aye, Father.”

  Guy was watching her.

  As the priest made his way toward the front of the chapel, he continued to look at her as if waiting for her to run screaming from the chapel.

  He would be waiting a long time.

  When he reached the front, he sighed deeply and waved them both over, indicating where they were to stand. They got into position, and without further preamble, the priest began the proceedings.

  Her wedding.

  Guy cleared his throat.

  The priest stopped and looked at him. Then they both stared at her.

  Guy glanced up, toward her head, which was when she realized she’d never taken off her headpiece. Finally understanding the priest’s stricken expression, she reached up, untucked the pins that held it so close to her face, and removed the headdress. Turning toward a bench, she placed it there, wishing she could change her gown as well.

  Turning back toward the men, Sabine froze at Guy’s expression.

  Had she done something wrong? His eyes were as wide as two circular trenchers, his lips slightly parted. The roguishly handsome man promptly burst into laughter, as he seemed prone to do.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  Chapter 8

  Guy approached his wife’s door, still amazed a private chamber had been available at the small abbey. He had slept in the stable loft, a fitful sleep given the circumstances. In the unlikely event they were already being followed, Guy did not wish to linger.

  His wife.

  Smiling at the thought of telling his friends, none of whom would believe he was a married man, Guy knocked on
the door.

  No answer.

  He imagined Sabine lying in bed, a mass of auburn hair spilling around her pillow. He thought back to the moment she’d finally removed her headpiece that morning. The sight of all that glossy hair, tumbling around her lovely face . . . it had shocked him that such a woman would willingly give herself to him in marriage. Even Father Wheeland could not contain his surprise.

  Guy knocked again.

  “A moment, if you please.”

  Oddly, he felt no animosity toward the woman who’d entrapped him into marriage. Neither did he feel as if a noose hung around his neck. For a man who’d vowed never to marry, it was a curious thing. Perhaps knowing it was temporary helped matters.

  The door opened, and for the second time that day, Guy was rendered speechless.

  The drab black had been replaced with a gown worthy of a queen. Deep green velvet contoured a pair of ample breasts and tapered to a waist he very much wanted to encircle with his hands. And pull her toward him. Taste the bold woman who was now, if only for a short time, his wife.

  “And you were to be a nun.” He made a noise in the back of his throat.

  “Pardon?”

  Was she really so innocent?

  Guy spotted her bag next to the bed. Moving past her to take it, his eyes caught the coverlet. Again, he imagined what she’d look like abed. Did she sleep naked or in a shift?

  “If God intended for you to be a nun, I am most certainly destined to become the next king of England.”

  They really should not tarry, but . . .

  Guy reached behind his wife and closed the door.

  “What are you about?”

  He put the bag back down. Took two steps toward her, and stopped.

  “It occurs to me Father Wheeland was remiss during the ceremony.”

  She didn’t understand his meaning yet.

  “Remiss?”

  “In his haste to lead us through the exchange of vows”—he took another step—“he failed to officiate an important part of the ceremony.”

  “The kiss,” she said, biting her succulent bottom lip.

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “We also posted no banns, wear no rings, and do not intend for this arrangement to last.”

  “We agreed,” he argued, taking another step toward her, “this marriage would be consummated.”

  “You suggested as much. I never agreed to such a thing.”

  God, his wife was beautiful. That nun’s garb did little for her visage, but looking at her now, Guy could almost imagine keeping her.

  Almost.

  If having a wife, falling in love, were for him. He’d decided long ago that such things were for other people.

  But in the meantime . . .

  “You will.”

  He stood as close to her now as he had the eve before, when she’d first blackmailed him. The rose-scented water she must have used to clean drifted between them, a most pleasant scent. Although her expression was quite mutinous, Guy rather liked it. It would make it that much sweeter when she chose to give herself to him. Although he had not lied when he called himself dishonorable, he would never force himself upon a woman. His wife or nay.

  Her chest rose and fell in protest. “You would chance a child for a moment of pleasure?”

  Guy let his eyes linger on his wife’s lips. And then dip lower. When he finally raised his gaze, he answered without pause.

  “I would chance much for a moment of pleasure. With you.”

  Her lips parted.

  “You are reckless.”

  “Aye.”

  He’d never deny such a claim.

  “You should be glad for it,” he added, moving back to her bag and lifting it from the ground. “For certainly no prudent man would allow himself to be blackmailed into marrying a stranger on the same day he proposed treason to one of the most powerful bishops in England.”

  Striding toward the door, Guy waited for Sabine to join him.

  “My lady?”

  Instead of walking toward him, she stood, unmoving, in the same spot where he’d nearly kissed her. Dallying for such a purpose had seemed quite reasonable a moment ago. Now, as his mind shifted to the journey ahead, he wondered at his sanity. They needed to leave this place before the pursuit she expected materialized.

  “Before we leave . . .”

  With his hand on the iron handle of the door, Guy waited for her to finish her sentence.

  “Should we not have a plan?”

  “For?”

  “You make for Noreham Castle to meet with the leader of Bande de Valeur?”

  “We,” he corrected. “Unless you’d prefer to stay here?”

  She shuddered.

  “We’ve not spoken of what happens afterward.”

  His grip on her bag tightened. “I assumed from the way you so deftly threatened to share my conversation with the bishop that you understood what might happen.”

  She blinked.

  “There may not be an ‘afterward,’ Sabine. ’Tis as likely Aceline de Chabannes will report me to the king’s men as he will turn tail and head back to France. If I leave Noreham Castle with my head intact, then we can indeed discuss the dissolution of this marriage.”

  “You do not expect to leave Noreham alive.”

  He shrugged. “If I do, it will be at the expense of alerting the king to our actions. Either way, you will more likely be a widow than find yourself divorced.”

  “You expect to die?” she repeated.

  He opened the door.

  “Always. Sooner if you don’t come with me,” he said, ignoring the fact that it was he who’d first delayed them. Ignoring the fact that, aside from the order and their cause, he almost had something worth living for.

  Almost.

  For Lady Sabine was not his wife in truth, nor would she ever be.

  Chapter 9

  “They are dead. Both of them.”

  Sabine didn’t believe him. Her father’s overlord was a hard man, but not so callous that he would deliver such news with so little emotion.

  “Nay.” Her heart began to race, louder and faster until he could likely hear it too. “Nay.”

  He touched her on the shoulder.

  “Sabine?”

  “Nay,” she repeated, over and over again.

  “Sabine?”

  Her eyes flew open, the dream lingering with her. Nay, not so much a dream as a memory, one that had haunted her for weeks.

  She’d fallen asleep leaning against a tree, an unlikely spot for slumber, although they’d had precious little rest since departing Holybourne Abbey. After leaving the abbey where they’d married, they’d ridden well into the night. When Guy finally signaled it was time to stop, Sabine nearly fell off their mount and embraced the ground. He’d prepared a fire then, and the warmth had lulled her to sleep.

  And into a nightmare.

  Handing her a piece of meat and a chunk of bread, Guy sat next to her.

  Much too close.

  That morning, Sabine had thought he intended to make good on his promise to consummate the marriage. Despite having the opportunity, he had not taken advantage of her.

  The mercenary was more honorable than she had first imagined, certainly more so than he claimed. Which did not account for her disappointment when he did not so much as claim her lips.

  They ate in silence, watching the fire and sitting awkwardly together. Until he handed her a skin of ale. His fingers brushed against her, apurpose.

  “What did you dream?”

  His tone, devoid of its typical edge, was one of concern. Who was this man? The arrogant mercenary she’d met? The brazen traitor she knew him to be? A man who could easily claim her body but instead spoke to her as if he cared for her well-being?

  “Why do you ask?”

  He took back the skin.

  “Are you always so suspicious?”

  Her answer to that was immediate. “Aye.”

  She’d been taught to be so.


  She leaned forward, the bark of the tree behind her cutting into the thin linen shift. When Guy had first suggested she remove her travel gown, she’d laughed, thinking him mad. But it had soon become apparent the only possession left to her upon arriving at Holybourne would be quite impractical for this journey, and so Sabine had relented.

  Thankfully, it was a sturdy linen, more like a simple gown than a chemise. But it still lacked the layers of material to which she was accustomed in such company.

  “If you’ve little desire to converse, perhaps we should pass the time with other activities?”

  Smiling, she took a bite of bread.

  “Do you ever relent?” she asked, knowing the answer already.

  “If I did”—he placed the skin between them—“you would be dining now with a corpse.”

  “Has life so mistreated you, then?”

  She chanced a glance at him. The wide-open linen shirt gave her pause. Looking away quickly, she stared at the fire instead. He had the body of a mercenary. Not, of course, that she knew any others. But she could imagine it must be a difficult life indeed. And Sabine knew near-constant fighting was the danger to which he referred.

  The result: arms nearly as thick as the tree against which she leaned.

  “Not at all, my lady. I’m still here, am I not?”

  By his standards, Sabine should be thankful she was alive rather than lamenting the life she’d lost the day her parents were both killed.

  “I suppose.”

  “You never answered my question.”

  An owl’s call did so for her. Without realizing it at first, she moved slightly toward her husband. It was the first time Sabine had ever seen such darkness. If not for the fire, she’d not be able to see her own knees tucked up in front of her.

  “I dreamt,” she said, “of the day I learned my parents were killed.”

  “A dream you often have?”

  How did he know? She finished the food he’d given her, only for it to be immediately replenished.

  “Aye,” she admitted.

  “How were they killed?”

  The very idea of telling him would have seemed absurd a few days earlier. None knew of what she was about to share. But Guy was different.