by Lara Adrian
Each man pushed against the other, their blades poised vertically between their noses. While keeping the knight's focus on his blade, Gunnar hooked his leg around the man's calf and shoved with all his strength. He hit the ground on his back and Gunnar was on him in a trice, his blade pressing into the knight's mail-clad chest. “Do you yield?” he growled.
A tense moment passed and he pressed the blade deeper.
“Do you yield?”
“Aye,” the knight growled at last. “Aye, I yield.”
Gunnar relaxed his hold and stepped away from the man, leaving him to come to his feet on his own. The knight rose and removed his helm, indicating his surrender and revealing his identity.
Raina's attacker from the day before clenched his teeth and warned, “This is hardly the end of it.”
Cheers went up from the crowd, but Gunnar's victory was yet to be had. He remounted, steeling himself for the final confrontation with the demon of his past. Hatred raged in his veins as he approached the stands, his unflinching gaze fixed on the baron as he began his descent from the loges, his daughter clinging to his arm.
Gunnar watched with dispassionate calm as the elderly baron made his way down the center of the stands. He realized suddenly that Raina was not so much grasping her father's arm to steady herself but to assist him as he carefully picked his way down the stands on hesitant, almost feeble legs.
Gunnar felt a twinge of humiliation bleed through the heavy shroud of rage and hatred he had cloaked himself in for so long. This rotund, bowed creature was the demon who had haunted his dreams for the past thirteen years?
But Gunnar refused to feel pity, refused to feel anything.
When the baron reached the bottom of the stands, he lifted a jeweled chalice in the air, encouraging the applause of the spectators. He turned to Gunnar, inclining his head to acknowledge his victory, then passed the chalice to Raina. She took the ornate cup and extended it for Gunnar to drink of it.
“Lauds!” the baron exclaimed, clapping his hands together in hearty applause. “Lauds to you, good sir! An excellent show of skill.”
Gunnar accepted the goblet from Raina, nodding solemnly. Briefly distracted by the ruby- and sapphire-encrusted chalice, he wondered under what terms--at whose expense--d'Bussy had come to possess it.
“A lovely prize in itself,” the baron said proudly. “A treasure befitting a king, no?”
Gunnar twisted the chalice between his fingers. “'Tis worthless to my mind.” Ignoring Raina's affronted gasp, he returned his attention to the baron and spoke loud enough for all to hear. “The boon I seek this day is much greater than this petty trinket.”
The baron's mirth left his expression instantly. Gunnar met his stare, unflinching. Suddenly, the baron's brows rose high on his forehead, and a broad smile lit his features. He laughed aloud, a hearty guffaw, then turned to the sea of stunned faces behind him. “By the Rood! Here stands a man after my own heart!”
“That I am, d'Bussy,” Gunnar muttered under his breath. “That I am.”
He drained the chalice and tossed it negligently to the ground at his horse's feet. His right palm itched, resting on the hilt of his sword as d'Bussy's laughter echoed in his ears. His fingers curled around the leather grip of his sword, and he drew the blade from its scabbard, the metallic song bringing d'Bussy's attention slowly back to him.
The baron's mouth was open still and laughing, before realization dawned in his features and his mouth fell agape in surprise and shock. Time slowed to an exaggerated crawl as Gunnar swung his arm back, his eyes trained on d'Bussy's fleshy neck.
But as his blade began its descending arc, he lost sight of his mark. A flash of sky-blue sendal whisked his mind back to a day he longed to put to rest....
Surprise and fear had rendered Gunnar immobile when d'Bussy drew his sword, poised to kill. A blinding spark of sunlight kissed the blade as the baron raised it over his head. In the space of a heartbeat, the light was eclipsed. Gunnar cried out...but it was too late. His mother lunged forward, throwing herself between him and the falling sword. She screamed for d'Bussy to stay his hand.
And then she was silent.
Gunnar could still hear the blade as it bit into her slender neck, could still feel the startling warmth of the blood that splattered his face from the blow.
Could still taste the bitterness of loss...
A soft voice brought him back, stilling his hand in midair. Raina now stood in front of her father, arms spread wide to shield him, her neck in place of his. “Nay,” she cried, her eyes wide with terror. “Please, nay!”
Gunnar lowered his sword, unwilling and unable to strike the woman to get at his target.
Damn the wench.
She stared at him in horror, shaking her head mutely, her fearful sobs having stolen her voice altogether. Gunnar's blade hovered with lethal steadiness at her throat.
“What the devil is the meaning of this?” D'Bussy railed, stumbling from behind her to face their attacker.
From the periphery of his vision, Gunnar saw several men closing in on him from the sides. He pressed the blade closer to Raina's neck, his glare conveying a lethal warning to the baron. D'Bussy raised his hands to still the advancing guards.
Heart pounding with unspent rage, Gunnar snarled, “You may have escaped my sword this day, but mark you, d'Bussy, your crimes against me will not go unpunished.” He then spoke to the crowd. “This ignoble bastard murdered my father out of greed and killed my mother before mine eyes when she refused to become his whore.”
A deafening silence fell over the stands.
“Liar!” Raina cried.
“Who are you, knave?” the baron demanded, his rusty voice booming past his daughter's.
“No one of any consequence, or so you told me long ago.”
The baron's brow furrowed in confusion.
“My face holds no recall for you, Baron? 'Tis been some years, I credit, nigh a lifetime. Mayhap you require a name to refresh your memory.”
“I require only that you leave before I see you drawn and quartered,” the baron growled, and Gunnar chuckled, for the beast he knew the man to be was now beginning to rouse.
“Perhaps,” he said with malevolent calm, “you thought by wiping the name of Rutledge from this earth you might also remove it from your mind.”
“Papa?” Raina interjected, her voice filled with confusion. “Papa, what is he talking about?”
Gunnar willed his gaze to remain on the baron's, watching with satisfaction as those rheumy blue eyes narrowed to lethal slits. “By all that is holy, you are mad. Insane!” the baron sputtered. “I have murdered no one, and I've never before laid eyes on you.”
“Thirteen years have made you forgetful indeed, Baron,” Gunnar drawled coolly. “Careless, too, to let your lovely daughter wander out among the wolves.”
D'Bussy's face blanched and he moved his daughter farther behind him.
“Twice since just yesterday I've been close enough to pluck her from your grasp,” Gunnar continued, “but I've come for you alone. You cannot hide behind your daughter's skirts forever, old man. The moment you turn your back, you can be sure 'twill be my face you see, the steel of my blade you taste. Let this day serve as reminder and warning that I will return and vengeance will be mine.”
With that he withdrew his blade and wheeled his charger about, leaving the lists in a cloud of dust with several of d'Bussy's men on his heels.
Stunned and trembling with fear, Raina collapsed into her father's arms and watched as the man who, in the space of a day, had been first her rescuer and now her enemy, thundered out of her life. She prayed she would never lay eyes on him again, but in her heart she knew he meant what he had said.
He would return.
And heaven help all of them when he did.
Chapter 3
In the fortnight since the tournament, d'Bussy's numerous holdings had suffered nearly as many attacks in so many days. Village grain stores were burned, trade wago
ns were robbed, keeps were looted, and men had died. There was no question as to the identity of the raiders, for with each attack came the message that peace would be had only if the baron agreed to meet with their leader on the field of honor.
Each request went unanswered.
The baron received the news of the near daily attacks with an uncustomary lack of emotion. When his men rallied, ready to meet the marauders on the field, d'Bussy gave orders to stay, refusing to leave Norworth. Refusing to fight back.
One by one his political supporters turned their backs on him, unwilling to help a man who would not help himself. His dreams of power were now laughable, absurd at best.
The most recent report of attack came from one of the baron's holdings just a league away from Norworth. D'Bussy sat mutely in his chair on the dais at the front of the emptied hall that served as his court between the daily meals. Nigel stood before him with the messenger from the neighboring castle.
“Milord, we must take a stand. These raids are growing more frequent, and with each passing day they draw closer to Norworth.” When the baron did not respond, Nigel leaned in, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “You need but ask and your men will follow you to battle. Say the word and we can rid ourselves of this nuisance for good.”
The baron said nothing, idly tugging an eyebrow, his unfocused gaze trained on the d'Bussy banner, which hung on the far wall of the great hall.
“Milord,” Nigel implored, raking a hand through his hair in evident frustration, “each day we are losing valuable stores and money.”
At last Nigel gained his attention. “'Tis my money, and my holdings. How I choose to handle the attacks is my own decision.”
“Aye, milord,” Nigel acquiesced with a respectful nod. “Of course the decision is yours. I only wish to point out that--”
“I have heard enough.” The baron rose from his chair to descend the dais, thus ending the morning's report.
“Shall I ready the garrison, then, milord?”
“Nay,” d'Bussy replied without turning to face his man.
“But milord! I warrant these raids will only increase if we do not act now. Will you wait until they come rapping on your door?”
At Nigel's bold tone, d'Bussy pivoted slowly and turned a narrowed gaze on him. A long moment passed in silence before the baron heaved a weary sigh. “Let the devil take what he will.”
He then departed the hall with his guards close at his sides.
* * *
Raina knocked lightly on her father's solar door. When no answer came from within, she pressed her ear to the rough oak panel. “Papa? Are you in here?” This time she rapped harder and the door creaked open enough for her to peer inside.
Her father sat slumped in his ornately-carved, cushioned chair, staring out the open window. He did not turn when she entered; indeed he hardly seemed aware of her presence at all. In his lap, he held an object--a book. Her mother's Bible, she realized as she drew closer. The same book Raina herself used to pore over when she was feeling particularly lonely and missing her mother.
“I'm sorry if I have disturbed your reading, Papa, but when you didn't answer me--”
Her voice seemed to rouse him from his thoughts and he looked up at her suddenly, his eyes sleep-weary and ringed with dark circles.
“Are you unwell, Papa? Since the tourney, you've been acting so strangely. You spend most of your days alone in here, and I know you are not sleeping as you should.” She touched him tenderly on the shoulder. “I am worried about you.”
Clumsily, he reached up and patted her hand, though if he heard her concern, his attention seemed focused elsewhere. With trembling fingers, he caressed the edge of a gilded, illuminated page in the book spread open in his lap. “How she loved this Bible. Beauclerc himself commissioned it for her when she was but a babe, can you imagine that? She was beautiful even then, my Margareth. Beautiful enough to enamor the king on first glance.”
“Aye, Papa,” Raina answered softly, but in truth she could no longer recall her mother's features. Every portrait of her had been taken down--destroyed, according to castle rumor--soon after her death. Now, as ever, her father spoke of his wife only when deep in contemplation or fraught with worry.
At the risk of upsetting him, Raina had learned long ago not to press for details of her mother, permitting her father his private reflection. But as a child, she had been full of questions: What was her mother like? How did she enjoy passing her time? Did Raina resemble her, even a little bit?
Her father's answers, when they came, were doled out reluctantly, sparingly, as if his wife were a treasure too precious to share, even with his daughter. Raina had her own memories of her mother, though they were puzzling in contrast to her father's carefully measured accounts of a spirited woman who charmed kings and queens alike. The woman Raina remembered was a pitiful, sad creature. A fragile woman, given to bouts of deep despair and a mere shadow of the bright angel her father must have known.
Often Raina wondered if her birth might have had something to do with her mother's decline, if perhaps in his vagueness, her father was trying to shield her from the truth. Blaming herself in part for the loss of such a cherished being, Raina had learned to accept her father's version, though her own troubling memories remained.
She pressed a kiss to his freckled pate. “I miss her, too. But at the moment, Papa, I am deeply concerned about you. I have been talking with Nigel--”
Her father stiffened instantly. “I told you to stay away from him,” he snapped. “I don't want you speaking to him, letting him fill your head with lies!”
Raina stepped back, stunned, and more than a bit confused at his outburst. “That we are under threat of attack is not a lie, Papa.” He exhaled as if to regain his composure, then settled back in his chair while Raina continued. “The entire keep is abuzz with reports of these raiders. Nigel says 'tis only a matter of time before they set their sights on Norworth.”
Her father shook his head soberly. “He won't come here,” he said in a low, reflective voice. “He'll plunder my holdings and take what he feels he is due, and then he will leave. But he won't come here.”
“He,” Raina repeated. “You are speaking of the man from the tourney, aren't you? You are speaking of Rutledge.”
Raina recalled well the name he'd given himself, recalled too, her unsettling encounter with him in the woods and again at the tourney. Her head still rang with the baffling accusations he'd made against her father. Wild, incomprehensible charges of murder. From that moment on, she had turned the name Rutledge about in her mind, trying to place it among those of her father's numerous acquaintances, but it yielded no memory.
“Do you reckon these raids are some means of vengeance against you for the crimes he has accused you of? Perhaps you should talk to Rutledge, prove to him that you have done no harm to him or his kin--”
“I will prove nothing to the blackguard!” he shouted. “I see no point in deigning to refute a madman's allegations. And I will not hear his name upon your tongue ever again, do you hear me, daughter?”
“Of course, Papa, I'm sorry.”
Looking at her now, his expression softened. He smoothed her hair as he used to when she was a little girl in need of comfort or consoling. “You needn't be frightened, child; I'll keep you safe. Put that damnable rogue out of your mind. Soon enough he will be out of our lives.”
Raina nodded mutely, troubled to see the scarcely-contained worry in her father's eyes.
“Now, be a good girl,” he said, “and leave your father to some peace and quiet. I think I should enjoy a quick nap before we sup. Close the door on your way out if you would.”
She left his side, crossing the room in silence to do as he bade her. Her father might crave privacy but he would do no sleeping, of that she was certain. He was concerned, gravely concerned, and it seemed to have everything to do with Rutledge.
Stepping into the corridor, Raina pulled the door closed behind her, her eyes
trained on her father's slouched form as he steepled his fingers and resumed his pensive vigil at the window.
* * *
Supper that eve was a quiet affair, word having spread throughout the castle that the marauders loomed close by. Most everyone ate in silence, and those who dared to speak did so in muffled whispers for the baron gave orders that he did not want to hear talk of the raids in his hall. By all accounts it appeared the baron intended to ignore the issue, relying on hope and vigilant prayer that the danger would soon pass.
This idea did not bode well with the baron's men, least of all Nigel, who, having drained his cup of yet another serving of ale, was growing bolder by the minute.
“I tell you, the baron is losing his mind,” he whispered mutinously to an older knight sitting beside him. The man smirked into his tankard. “'Tis no laughing matter,” Nigel said gravely. “The longer we wait to strike back at these thieves, the more we stand to lose. All of us.”
As intended, the comment drew the attention of several men at the table. They leaned in to listen as Nigel continued.
“I for one will not stand idly by and watch as everything I've worked to preserve--everything we have worked to preserve--is handed over to that rogue from the tourney.”
Several knights nodded and grunted in agreement.
“Aye,” growled one man. “I've a taste for thieves' blood.”
“'Tis been a long while since my blade has seen battle. Far too long, I say,” answered another.
“Then you agree,” Nigel said. “We must take action, and soon.”
“Aye, but what action can we take when our lord has said do nothing?” asked one of the men.