A Knight and His Rose

by Catherine Kean

  “As I said, this letter is not what I entrusted him to write. I do not know why Crawford disobeyed me,” Osric said evenly, “but once he is here, I will get an explanation.”

  “Please, Father. Listen to Osric. He was going to return me to Darringsleigh by twilight, as you wanted.”

  “Violetta speaks the truth, milord. I swear it, upon my knight’s honor.”

  His lordship’s attention shifted to Violetta. “With respect, Daughter, why would I believe you, when you have been under Seabrook’s influence?”

  “Father, I—”

  “How did you come to be injured? Was he involved?”

  “Osric is not at all to blame. I took a fall the other evening while returning from the stone circle.”

  His lordship’s face reddened with fury. “You…went over the wall?”

  “Aye.”

  “Alone? In the darkness?”

  “I did. I—”

  “Did you spare even one thought for the consequences of your actions?”

  Osric’s shoulders tensed, for his lordship’s biting words reminded Osric of the way his late sire had spoken to him. But, there was a crucial difference: Molineaux spoke out of love and concern. Not once had Osric believed his father had cared about him.

  “I only wanted a little freedom,” Violetta was saying.

  “A lady of your position can never have freedom.” Molineaux looked upset enough to break a stone wall with his fists. “You could have been attacked, violated—”

  “Thankfully, none of those terrible things happened,” Osric cut in. “I did not know who she was when I found her. However, I knew that as a knight, I had a duty to protect her from harm and treat her wounds.”

  Molineaux glowered. “She is hardly protected now. Not with us on the verge of war.”

  Osric held his lordship’s stare. “You and I can avoid bloodshed. We can use recent events to bring understanding and peace between our families, if you will allow it.”

  “Peace? With a Seabrook?”

  “There are matters of which you do not yet know.” Violetta nudged Osric with her elbow. “If you will allow us to show you—”

  “Delay me, you mean? Keep me talking while Seabrook’s servants round up more men to fight?”

  Osric cursed. Looking out across the bailey again, he shouted, “Where in hellfire is Crawford?”

  “Father, you must—”

  “I have heard all I care to hear.” With the rasp of steel, Molineaux drew his sword.

  ***

  Oh, God. Oh, God.

  Osric reached around Violetta and drew his blade, the steel gleaming in the sunshine.

  Fear gripped her. She must stop the battle.

  Her father’s men-at-arms had also unsheathed their swords. So had soldiers from Osric’s garrison who’d converged in the bailey. Archers on the battlements stood with their bows ready, arrows nocked. As an expectant silence fell over the crowd, she fought not to give in to despair.

  “Do not fight,” she shrieked. “I beg you.”

  “Seabrook and I will settle our grievances here and now,” her father snarled.

  The forebuilding door flew open. A man ran out. “Milord! Crawford…left the fortress.”

  “What?” Osric bellowed.

  “A short while ago, a maid…saw him and a…guard leave…through the postern.”

  “The postern?” Violetta echoed. “Why did he not go out through the main gates?”

  “Of greater concern is why he left at all,” Osric said.

  Their gazes met, his dark with fury, but before she could ask what he’d meant, her father said: “Get down from the horse, Daughter. Get as far away as you can.”

  Foreboding rushed through her, for Osric could easily make her his captive. He need only angle his sword against her body. But, he made no attempt to do so. Like the hero she knew him to be, he granted her the right to make her own choice: to stay or to go.

  If she stayed, she could protect him from her father.

  “I am not leaving Osric,” she said. When dismay etched her sire’s features, she searched the crowd, desperate to find the one person who might be able to prevent catastrophe. “Shelley! Show yourself.”

  Murmurs spread through the throng, and then, the healer emerged from a doorway. Clearly reluctant, she stepped into the sunlight and curtsied. “Milady.”

  “You can stop this fight,” Violetta pleaded.

  “Who is this woman?” her father demanded.

  “Coltingstow’s healer,” Osric replied.

  “None of us can change the past,” Violetta said to the older woman, “but we—you—can set things right now.”

  The healer wrung her hands. “I made a solemn vow.”

  “And you kept your promise,” Violetta coaxed, “but the ones you were protecting are long gone. Now, Osric and I need you to reveal the truth of years ago.”

  “Violetta is right,” Osric said. “Shelley, share what you know about my grandfather, William.”

  “And my father’s mother, Jacqueline,” Violetta added.

  “What does my mother have to do with this?” her sire demanded.

  Shelley’s gaze shifted to Osric. He nodded in encouragement.

  After drawing a shaky breath, the healer said: “Many years ago, William Seabrook and Jacqueline Molineaux…were lovers.”

  Mutters of shock and disbelief spread through the crowd.

  “Never!” Violetta’s father raged. “How dare you suggest—?”

  “Father, please. You must listen.”

  “They were both very young,” Shelley continued. “Jacqueline had unexpectedly found herself widowed and with an infant son—you, Lord Molineaux. William had not yet married. I do not remember how or where they met, but they swiftly fell in love. King Stephen’s war against his rivals had pitted their families against one another, though, so they had to keep their romance a secret.”

  More murmurs rippled through the onlookers in the bailey.

  Violetta’s father scowled. “I do not believe a word.”

  “What I am telling you is the truth, milord,” Shelley went on. “I myself would never have known about their relationship except…one night, Jacqueline cut her arm. Apparently she had fallen while climbing down a ladder. Worried about her, William got her to the infirmary; he’d paid several guards on duty to keep their silence. He asked me to treat her arm and make sure she did not have any other injuries.”

  “Nonsense,” Violetta’s sire muttered, flexing his grip on his sword.

  “Go on, Shelley,” Osric said firmly. “We need to hear it all.”

  The healer sighed. “They had no more than a few weeks together, before the crown arranged another marriage for Jacqueline. She had to leave Darringsleigh, and the fortress was governed in your stead, Lord Molineaux, until you were old enough to rule. William faced his own arranged marriage. I do not know if he and Jacqueline ever saw each other again, after they were forced to part ways.”

  “Jacqueline returned to Darringsleigh a few years ago,” Violetta said. “She was once again a widow, but by then, William had died, and Osric’s father ruled Coltingstow. My grandmother never mentioned her romance with William to me.”

  “Nor to me or your mother,” her sire said. “’Tis good reason for me not to believe Shelley’s words.”

  “Father.” Violetta struggled to rein in her frustration.

  Her sire’s blazing gaze met hers. “As a lord, responsible for the lives of many folk, I can never consider one person’s account to be the truth. ’Twould not be right.”

  “I have to agree,” Osric said.

  Violetta swallowed hard. She saw no other choice. They must reveal what they’d discovered in the cavern. Not to her sire in private, as they’d intended, but here, now, with everyone in the bailey bearing witness.

  Osric must have read her thoughts, for he said: “Milord, your daughter and I have proof of William and Jacqueline’s relationship. ’Tis in my bag, if you will allow us t
o show you?”

  “Be quick about it.”

  Osric nodded to Violetta. She reached into the bag, withdrew the box, and handed it down to the lad, who took it to her father.

  “I will not sheath my weapon to open that,” her sire growled.

  “Fine,” Violetta said, “but you need to see what is inside.”

  Shelley and some of the other castle folk moved nearer as her sire set the container on his thigh and opened the lid. He frowned. “Where did you get this?”

  “’Twas hidden in a secret place not far from here,” Osric said. “Violetta and I discovered it together.”

  “We also found two of these.” She handed one of the tarnished goblets down to the lad, who carried it to her sire. Impatience etching his features, her father studied the vessel.

  His gaze sharpened. He brought the goblet in closer to inspect the etching.

  “Father?”

  “The design,” he said, clearly shocked. “’Tis identical to some old silver at Darringsleigh. It belonged to my mother.”

  Hope flickered in Violetta’s breast, and she exchanged a glance with Osric.

  “If my suspicions are correct, milord,” Osric said, “our families became enemies not entirely by our own designs.”

  “What do you mean by that, Seabrook?”

  “If you and your men will agree to stand down, I will show you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Osric squinted at the stone circle a short distance ahead. As he scanned the surrounding field, misgiving tore through him. Where were the guards?

  Fury boiled within him, for with each passing moment, he grew more convinced today’s confrontation with Molineaux had been contrived. A diversion. Osric could only hope they’d catch the bastards responsible, before they took what they wanted and vanished, never to be seen in Wiltshire again.

  Moments ago, he’d asked to briefly speak in private with Molineaux. In clear view of their accompanying guards, but far enough away that the soldiers couldn’t hear, Osric had halted his destrier alongside his lordship’s and, with Violetta contributing, had told of the tunnel and the skeleton. While the older lord remained distrustful, at least he now had the same knowledge of the unfolding situation as Osric.

  With the jangle of tack, Molineaux drew his mount alongside Osric’s. The six men-at-arms he’d insisted on accompanying him—the rest waited in a standoff at Coltingstow—fell in close behind. “Did you not tell me you had posted guards?”

  “Aye.” Osric spurred his destrier to a gallop, as did Molineaux.

  As Osric neared the opening into the tunnel, a foul oath broke from him. His guards lay stacked one atop another in the grass, their garments and faces bloodied, their dead eyes staring heavenward.

  Lane had escaped the killing.

  The captain-of-the-guard had likely done the killing.

  Revulsion churned inside Osric, for rope had been tied around the corpses with the other end disappearing into the earth.

  “Oh, mercy,” Violetta whispered.

  Osric wished he could have spared her from the grisly sight of murdered men. Swiftly dismounting, he ordered one of his guards to remove the rope from the corpses and to cover them with saddle blankets. The rest of his men he ordered to stand guard over the hole in the ground.

  When Violetta attempted to get down from the destrier, he reached up and squeezed her hand. “Stay on the horse. If fighting breaks out, ride back to Coltingstow.”

  “I want to be here, with you.”

  With her hurt ankle, she was vulnerable; he’d never forgive himself if she came to further harm. Reaching into his cloak, he withdrew her dagger. He’d intended to return it to her anyway before sending her home. “Keep this within easy reach.”

  “Thank you. I will.” She tucked away the knife. “I am not going to ride off, though. Help me down, please.”

  She clearly wasn’t going to yield, and he didn’t want her falling while stubbornly dismounting on her own. Osric helped her down and untied her crutches secured to his destrier’s saddle. He then escorted her to where men-at-arms were feeding another rope down into the tunnel.

  Upon her approach, Molineaux’s expression hardened with disapproval.

  “I am staying,” she said firmly.

  His lordship looked about to protest, but then, a muffled thud came from belowground.

  Osric scowled. “I need to get down there.”

  “I am going with you,” Molineaux said.

  Osric nodded.

  With the rope finally lowered, Osric ordered one of his men-at-arms to descend first. An instant later, shouts carried from the tunnel then the clang of swords.

  Osric grabbed hold of the rope. “Stay above ground,” he said to Violetta. He half-expected a refusal, but to his relief, she agreed.

  Osric descended into the tunnel. Grunts and the ring of colliding weapons echoed in the passageway. Torches, lying burning on the ground, cast an eerie light upon the tunnel walls.

  To his right, two men were fighting. Once Osric’s boots touched ground, he drew his blade and headed toward the combatants. The man-at-arms he’d sent below was battling another guard from Coltingstow—a stocky, blond warrior who was close friends with Lane.

  When the blond guard saw Osric, guilt touched his gaze, but he didn’t stop the deadly slash of his sword.

  “Out of my way,” Osric said.

  “You shall not pass, milord.”

  The guard was keeping them away from the cavern with the skeleton.

  “Did you help Lane kill your fellow soldiers?” Osric demanded.

  Remorse flickered in the blond man’s eyes.

  Osric glared. “I did not think you a murderer.”

  The warrior lashed out with his blade. Osric’s man retaliated with a thrust that sent the guard stumbling back.

  A thump sounded behind Osric: Molineaux had entered the tunnel.

  “Let me deal with him,” his lordship said, coming to Osric’s side.

  The blond guard edged sideways so that he blocked the tunnel. Molineaux attacked, and as Osric’s man-at-arms lunged as well, the blond warrior grunted and parried. Steel clanged again and again. Pressed back against the tunnel wall, Osric waited for a chance to dart past the fight.

  Molineaux brought his blade arcing down. When the blond man was forced to dodge the strike, Osric raced past and on toward the cavern.

  Crawford and Lane, holding swords, stood inside the earthen chamber. The steward stood at the back, near the bones. Scattered earth lay on the ground—more fallen dirt than before, so either the soil was shifting or he’d poked at it with his weapon.

  Lane advanced two paces to put himself between Osric and his father.

  Blood coated Lane’s blade—the blood of loyal, hard-working men—and Osric’s anger flared again. “Put your weapons down. Surrender,” he commanded.

  Crawford chortled, a disparaging sound. Then he pointed the tip of his sword toward the bones.

  “I said, lower your weapons. Surrender.”

  The steward sneered. “We Crawfords no longer take orders from you.” He jabbed his blade into the dirt.

  “Cease,” Osric bellowed, as more soil poured down, exposing a skeletal arm. “You are disturbing a man’s remains.”

  “I care not,” Crawford muttered.

  “The sheriff—”

  “Silence him,” the steward said.

  “Gladly, Father.”

  As the captain-of-the-guard raised his sword to attack, Osric said, “What did your sire promise you? A share of the riches? You should know there may not be any.”

  “Do not listen to him. We know there is treasure.” Crawford stabbed at the dirt again. A dense stream of soil and stones rained down, and with a cry of disgust, the steward stumbled back, brushing dirt from his garments.

  Carried along by the flow of earth, the bones shifted. A ribcage and part of a skull came free, and then the skeleton fell to the cavern floor, followed by a disintegrating leather bag. It landed
near the bones, spilling gold coins, jewels, and gem-encrusted silverware onto the ground.

  Crawford grinned. “At last.”

  Lane’s attention was on the treasure. Hell, Osric needed every advantage against the man who’d trained Coltingstow’s soldiers for years.

  Osric lunged.

  The captain-of-the-guard blocked his strike; the impact of the collision jarred down Osric’s arms. He darted away then attacked again, with quick blows that forced Lane backward. Coins and jewels clinked as Crawford shoved handfuls into a leather satchel.

  “Get plenty for me,” Lane said.

  “’Tis not yours to take,” Osric growled, striking out again. Grunting, the captain-of-the-guard deflected the blow, but he was getting close to the wall. Osric pivoted, and as Lane turned to better face him, Osric drove the lout back. Lane banged his elbow against a stone supporting the cavern wall, and as he grimaced, distracted for the space of one heartbeat, Osric rushed in, locked blades with him then shoved the captain-of-the-guard, hard. Lane’s head hit the wall. He collapsed, unconscious.

  Footfalls sounded behind Osric. He spun to see Molineaux, his face glistening with sweat. The older lord nodded once—silently conveying that Lane’s friend had been felled. As Osric nodded back, movement snapped his gaze to Crawford, rising from the cavern floor, his satchel bulging with riches.

  “The tales about lost treasure were true, then,” Molineaux said.

  The steward smirked. “My ancestors always knew they were.”

  Osric frowned. “How?”

  Crawford glanced past Molineaux, as though planning to run for the rope.

  “Are you going to flee and abandon your son?” Osric challenged, not caring to hide his loathing.

  “I will return for Lane once our riches are safe.”

  The bastard would not be allowed to rescue his child; Osric would make very sure of that. Also, the steward bloody well would answer Osric’s question. As Crawford edged toward the tunnel, Osric asked again, “What did you mean, when you said your ancestors knew there was treasure?”

  His sword raised to ward off attack, Crawford continued toward the passageway.

  “Answer me,” Osric pressed, moving toward Molineaux to help block the way out. “Refuse, and there will be consequences.”