Lord of Vengeance

by Lara Adrian

  The baron waited for a challenge from his insolent young knight, but Nigel said nothing. Jaw set, he wheeled his mount about and left the loges, riding negligently--and, the baron was certain, quite deliberately--through the freshly-raked lists in the direction of the ale tent.

  * * *

  Gunnar stalked the gaily-colored avenue astride his destrier, feeling like a ghost among this gaudy, churning throng of life. He felt none of the excitement, none of the apprehension he saw reflected in the eyes of the men around him. He scanned the dozens of faces, looking past the fresh, hungry expressions of the younger knights to the older men who had come to compete. Of those who met his stare, only a few held it for more than a heartbeat; then they, too, glanced away, letting him pass without taking issue.

  He searched in vain for a pair of cold blue eyes that had haunted his dreams almost nightly; a round, pock-marked face and a scarlet, bulbous nose that bespoke too much drink. He would know that face anywhere, could still see the cocksure stance of a man with unchecked power, and the line of pebble-like, yellowed teeth bared in a malevolent smile.

  But while the blue and gold of d'Bussy's standard fluttered from the lances of nearly every fourth knight in attendance, the baron himself was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he'd imbibed too much wine and had not yet risen from his bed, Gunnar thought. Nay, more likely, the stout little rooster was being pampered in his castle, waiting until everyone had gathered so he could make a grand entrance onto the field.

  Gunnar hoped to make his own entrance to the melee without fanfare, intent that d'Bussy have not even a hint of his presence until Gunnar had his blade poised at the devil's throat. To wit, his chain mail armor hung from his shoulders, polished but unadorned; his lance and shield bore no standard.

  For all of the last seven years, he had served no one, save himself. Alone by choice this day as well, he had instructed the handful of mercenaries in his employ to remain behind at his keep. Only Alaric, his over-eager young squire, knew Gunnar's true purpose for attending the tourney and the potential consequences should he, or should he not, accomplish his goal.

  Loyal to a fault, the lad nearly had to be tied to a tree to keep him from tagging along. Alaric had insisted that his desire to accompany Gunnar had naught at all to do with the veritable feast of pink-cheeked lovely young maids sure to be in attendance at a tourney of this size. The memory of his squire's less than convincing denial solicited an amused grin from Gunnar. In its wake, his thoughts turned to the woman he had encountered in the woods last afternoon.

  He wasn't in the habit of seducing innocent peasant girls. In truth, he wasn't in the habit of seducing anyone. Years before, he'd had his first taste of carnal pleasure, had sampled the bounty of a woman's body and the power that want of it could wield over a man.

  He had recognized the danger then and in the time since, he had managed to remain focused, purposely devoid of that particular distraction.

  Until yesterday.

  Something about that woman--that lamb--set his pulse thrumming and his blood pooling to the nether regions of his body. It had taken incredible strength of will to let her ride away, and even after she had, her memory and the heat it inspired lingered long into the night.

  He had deliberately ignored the temptation to seek her out this morn, willfully reining in his gaze each time it strayed into the crowd to look for her begrimed but beautiful face or a supple feminine form hidden beneath a peasant's garb. Today of all days, he needed no distractions.

  But then, over his shoulder, he heard her voice. He turned toward the sultry ripple of laughter and frowned.

  There she stood, one of a group of four noblewomen. Her back was to him as she spoke, and though he could not hear what she said, her voice brimmed with excitement. She wore a silk bliaut, the color of the airy fabric a near match for the cloudless summer sky. A ringlet of violets crowned her head, her dark hair combed free of yesterday's tangles and hanging past her hips in a thick, glossy curtain.

  She looked more queen than peasant today and her friends seemed to be in agreement, watching her and listening with the rapt attention of bedazzled subjects.

  Gunnar slowly guided his mount in her direction, telling himself the urge to be near her was more to confront her mild deception of the day before than to bask in her presence like the others. Though she all but whispered now, her voice became clearer to him as he approached.

  “And then, without so much as blinking an eye--”

  She drew her arm back, her hand curled into a small fist, then released it--a dainty imitation of the blow he'd dealt her attacker in the woods. Gunnar fought back a smile.

  The other ladies gasped, bringing their hands to their mouths, their eyes no longer on her, but on him.

  She continued undaunted. “Granted, such a brutish resolution was shocking to witness, but Nigel well and good deserved it--”

  “Lady Raina.” A woman at her side gave a nervous tug of Raina's sleeve and pointed a trembling finger over her shoulder. Raina quit talking and spun around, her hazel-colored eyes narrowing the instant they lit on him.

  “You,” she cried, and it sounded to Gunnar more a scolding than greeting.

  No one, not even the boldest mercenary in his employ, had ever deigned to raise a voice to him. The idea that this slip of a woman did so now, with her hands on her hips and her pert chin tilted to a supreme height, amused him greatly. Intrigued him.

  “Good morrow, Lady Raina.” He leaned heavily on her title, trying to cover his reaction to seeing her in this new light.

  Yesterday, despite the mud and grime, she was attractive. Now, looking up at him, her face scrubbed clean and her cheeks pink from the sun and surprise, she was breathtaking. Her friends disappeared nearly without his notice.

  “I see my lamb has traded her fleece for fine silk.”

  That proud chin climbed up a notch. “And you, my lord, may have hidden your black hide beneath steel links this morn, but I still see a wolf.”

  “Indeed?” He dismounted and came to stand before her. “I suppose then, 'tis too much to hope that you might cheer me on to victory today as your personal champion.”

  She made a small noise in the back of her throat, surely intended as a denial, but he didn't miss the faint curve of her lips, nor the blush that rose to her cheeks the instant before she tipped her face down to feign interest in the toe of her embroidered shoe. “I shall not be cheering anyone on,” she said with a trace of disdain. “If I had a choice in the matter, I should rather not even watch the melee. Contrary to my father's fondness for the sport, I find tourneys but an excuse for violence and debauchery.”

  “Aye,” Gunnar agreed with private reflection. “They do bring out the worst in men. Everyone seeking fortune or glory.”

  “And which have you come to seek, my lord?”

  He nearly chuckled at her frankness. “In truth, I have use for neither. I've come in the name of honor.”

  “A lady's honor?”

  “Aye,” he acknowledged, taking far too much interest in the way her eyes dimmed at the mention of another lady. “I've come to right a wrong.”

  “My lord, you surprise me,” she said with a light, teasing smile. “I hadn't taken you for the chivalrous sort. Tell me, is your lady here to see you defend her honor?”

  Instantly, he thought of his mother and her efforts to teach courtesy and manners to a boy more interested in mock battles and raucous adventure. Chivalry and honor were two things she prized; two things he had never possessed and likely never would.

  “She is dead,” he fairly snapped, his curt response enough to wipe any trace of joviality from Raina's features, but he scarcely noticed her response. Caught up in his own contemplation, he muttered his thoughts aloud. “If all goes well, the villain responsible will pay in kind by day's end.”

  The peal of a trumpet punctuated his ominous statement and drew the attention of nearly everyone gathered. A shout went up from a group of knights in the ale tent, followed by a
collective clanging of armor and stumbling of men toward their waiting mounts.

  “Well,” Raina said, looking over her shoulder toward the lists, “'tis time for the tourney to commence.”

  “Aye,” Gunnar acknowledged, scanning the crowd of competitors, impatience building in him with every heartbeat. “But I don't yet see the baron.”

  “He's there, in the stands.”

  Gunnar dragged his attention from the lists and followed her breezy gesture to the top of the loges, where a grizzled, paunchy old man sat beneath a striped canopy. Swathed in yards of bright silks that did naught to conceal his girth, the baron reclined like a slovenly king, sipping from a tankard and fanning himself with his hand. As if he suddenly sensed their regard, his attention turned toward them and he leaned forward in his seat, squinting under the glare of the sun and righting his little crown when it slipped forward over his brow.

  Gunnar's stomach clenched with a dawning realization. “He isn't dressed to compete....”

  “Compete?” Raina replied on a soft laugh. “Nay, of course not! 'Tis been years since he's competed himself.”

  Her voice was all but lost in the tumult whipping to a frenzy inside Gunnar. Rage, disappointment, helplessness, frustration--a swift torrent of emotion buffeted him at once, leaving him breathless and feeling as if the ground were opening up beneath him and sucking him down.

  He had waited all this time, come all this way...for nothing.

  “Nay,” Raina was saying, “the closest my father gets to the lists these days is to award the prizes to the victor.”

  Her father.

  “Baron d'Bussy is--” He nearly had to shake himself to form the words without sputtering. “He is your father?”

  “Aye, he is,” she replied brightly; then she looked to his expression and he could almost feel her shudder where she stood.

  Gunnar fought hard to control his roiling, self-directed anger, summoning every ounce of control he possessed to keep his reaction bland, unaffected. What an idiot he'd been. What a fool! So taken with a becoming wench that he'd been oblivious to the baron's presence, and worse, chattering on with the villain's own daughter when he should have been plotting an alternative means of attack.

  “Whatever is the matter?” she asked.

  He breathed in deeply, feeling his nostrils flare with the effort, and slowly let the calming draught out. Shuttering his expression with the expertise gleaned from years of practice, he faced her. Smiled at her.

  The wary frown that had pinched her brow faded quickly and melted into a hopeful-looking smile. “Do you know my father?”

  “My lady,” he said, “I should think there's not a man from here to the Continent who does not know of your father or his reputation.”

  “Aye,” she remarked, evidently pleased. “I reckon, indeed.”

  Clearly his light tone and affable mien had belied none of the sarcasm he felt. Only he knew how his heart was pounding with hatred, his blood hot and coursing with rage for the demon of his past.

  At that moment, a young, towheaded page scurried to Raina's side. He halted at her elbow, and, hands clasped before him, he cleared his throat. “B-begging pardon, m-my lady.” The lad's stammer turned into a terrible stutter as his eyes darted nervously between Gunnar and her. He took a huge gulp of air and continued at little more than a whisper. “M-my lord has sent m-me hither to f-fetch you to his side for the start of the tourney.”

  “Thank you, Robert.” She hunkered down to the page's level. “You are doing so much better,” she whispered, combing her fingers through his overlong, white-blond bangs. “Walk back with me to the stands and I'll buy each of us a nice, sugary wafer. How does that sound?”

  At the lad's enthusiastic nod, Raina giggled and rose, bringing him to her side in a sisterly hug. She looked to Gunnar, a warm smile still glowing in her eyes, and he felt the queerest pull in his gut. Caused by jealousy or longing, he knew not which, but he stamped the feeling down as quickly as it came.

  She is d'Bussy's daughter, he reminded himself. Spawn of his enemy and he should feel nothing toward her.

  “I must go,” she said.

  “Of course,” he murmured. With the baron still glaring down from his seat, Gunnar took Raina's hand in his and brought it to his lips. He felt her tremble as he pressed a chaste kiss to her fingers, knowing from her quick intake of breath that her cheeks were flushed an innocent pink, but Gunnar's eyes remained fastened on her father's darkening expression.

  Only when she drew her hand from his did he look from the baron's eyes and into his daughter's. “'Tis been a pleasure, Lady Raina,” he said, and wanted to kick himself because he spoke the truth in telling her so.

  “My lord,” she acceded with a polite nod. Then, blushing from her chin to her scalp, she pivoted on her heel and made to leave with young Robert gathered close to her side.

  Gunnar watched her diaphanous skirts swirl about her legs, her gently flared hips swaying with each step she took. Suddenly she stopped, turned, and ran back to him.

  She pressed something into his hand and placed a quick kiss to his cheek. “For luck,” she whispered against his ear, and she was gone, running back to the page and leaving Gunnar standing beside his mount like a witless dolt.

  Befuddled and utterly surprised, he uncurled his fist and stared into his open palm. A swatch of blue silk lay there like so much summer air, the edges of the fine fabric ruffling in the mild breeze, soft and delicate against his callused fingers.

  Saints' blood, she had given him her favor.

  He wanted to cast it away, along with the maddening feelings she had inspired in him after only two brief encounters. Instead, he brought the token to his face, breathing in her fragrance, recalling in its silky folds the pleasing softness of her lips as she kissed his cheek.

  His sex roused with swift and potent desire, the likes of which he had never felt before. Desire for this lovely girl, bewitching woman, gentle lamb. His enemy's daughter.

  How could so guileless a creature be borne of d'Bussy's rancid blood? How could such apparent goodness come from such proven evil? He would likely never have the answer, for when the day was out and her father was dead at the end of Gunnar's sword, Raina would surely fear and despise him.

  Resolving not to care, he shoved the scrap of silk into his gauntlet then unfastened his helm from his saddle and placed it over his head. The heavy, conical steel form settled into place, and he was no longer man but warrior. His every muscle tensed for battle, Gunnar willed his heart to equally stony composition. As he had done so oft in the past, he systematically blocked out all feeling, all emotion, until all that remained was the cool logic of sword and sinew.

  He mounted his destrier and soberly took his place at one side of the tournament field. If the baron meant to award the victor alone, Gunnar would make certain he was that man.

  From the moment the trumpeter sounded the start of the melee, Gunnar fought like a man possessed. He charged forward relentlessly, taking advantage of the other competitors' fatigue and ignoring his own until the day grew long and the field dwindled down to the remaining few.

  At last, only Gunnar and one other knight remained. The latter, one of d'Bussy's men, was no match for Gunnar in terms of size, but the grim set of the man's jaw beneath his helm certainly attested to his determination. He charged forward with a shrill war cry as Gunnar was leaning from his mount to assist his last opponent to his feet.

  Gunnar turned abruptly, wheeling his mount about and placing his shield at the ready, having time enough only to brace himself for the attack. The knight's lance met Gunnar's shield, knocking the wind from his lungs and making him momentarily lose his balance. Gunnar's heart thudded in his chest so loudly, he scarcely heard the collective gasp from the spectators and the applause as he faltered in the saddle.

  He could not lose. He would not.

  The knight wheeled his steed around and came upon Gunnar again, lance poised to strike with perfect aim. With a roar, Gu
nnar charged forward, his lance leveled at his opponent's heart. The earth rumbled as their great steeds advanced on each other. Everything grew suddenly quiet as time itself seemed to slow. Gunnar kept his eyes trained on his opponent's shield and on the spot to hit that would surely toss him from his mount. His complete concentration transferred to that spot, he spurred his destrier forward.

  In an instant Gunnar felt the familiar jolt and heard the sharp crack of a lance meeting its mark. Then, for the first time in his life, he felt his world tilt wildly...and realized he was falling from his saddle. He grasped at his destrier's mane, but his leather gauntlet prevented him from getting a firm grip on the beast, which was kicking and trying frantically to get away. Gunnar hit the ground hard, his breath leaving in a wheeze.

  The stallion pawed the air, then ran to the side of the lists while Gunnar scrambled to his feet. Quickly drawing his sword, he stood ready as d'Bussy's man prepared to charge him. The knight jabbed his war-horse cruelly with his spurs, making the beast scream and rear before it barreled toward its target, snorting and huffing as clods of dirt sprayed in its wake. The white slash of a sneer showed under the knight's nasal as he leveled his lance. Gunnar knew without question this man meant to kill him and wondered for the briefest moment if this was how his father had felt in d'Bussy's tourney so long ago.

  The thought scarcely had a chance to form before the horse and knight were upon him. At the last moment, Gunnar jumped out of the way of the snarling pair, swiping his sword at the destrier's hindquarters as it passed. The great steed shrieked and careened to the side, throwing its rider to the ground. The knight quickly gathered his wits, drawing his sword and charging Gunnar with a ferocious battle cry.

  Sparks flew as steel met steel with an angry clang, then again and again, as each man swung his sword and met the other's strike. Gunnar's opponent soon began to tire, slashing wildly from side to side, hacking at the air in a blind attempt to hit him. Sensing the man's fatigue, Gunnar redoubled his efforts, meeting his opponent's blade and holding it with his own.