Immortal Champion

by Lisa Hendrix

  If his grip as he hauled her down the stairs was any sign, he was even angrier now than he had been on the way up. Eleanor quickly ran through what she’d said to her mother, but found nothing he could fault. Perhaps if she groveled a bit. He always liked it when people groveled. It had saved her more than once.

  At her chamber, he pushed the door open so hard it slammed against the wall behind.

  “Lucy, tell Bertrand I want two men on this door for the night. And when I am done, ready your lady for travel.”

  Lucy’s eyes got wide. “My lord?”

  “She leaves for Burwash at first light.”

  Burwash. Richard. “No!” Eleanor jerked forward, grabbing at his sleeve. “Oh, no, my lord, please. He has not even sent for me. He wants me no more than I want him.”

  He shook her off and snapped at Lucy, “Did you not understand me?”

  “Yes, of course, my lord.” Lucy bolted out the door. Before she’d gotten a yard down the hall, Westmorland grabbed Eleanor, yanked her into the chamber, slammed the door shut, and dropped the bar. Lucy had lit the room well, and the glow of the lamp and candles brought his icy, narrowed eyes and the white ring around his mouth into high relief.

  His silence wasn’t vexation, it was fury. Pure, raw, barely controlled fury. Wherever it came from, Eleanor realized, her only chance was to appease.

  “I am sorry my foolishness caused so much trouble, my lord, and very grateful you found me. If you had not—”

  “Silence.”

  “But I only meant to say—”

  He hit her, a backhand so quick she didn’t see it coming. It left her head spinning. Clutching her cheek, she looked up at him through tearing eyes. “What did I—”

  “Was it Sir Gunnar?”

  Oh, sweet Mother. Fear chilled her blood and thickened her tongue. Part of her, the panicked part, wanted to shout that Gunnar would be there to marry her in two days. The other, the part that knew her father’s anger too well, recognized that such a claim would only make matters worse. “I don’t know what—”

  He hit her again, harder. Reeling, she stumbled against the wall and slid down partway. Grabbing her hair, he hauled her to her feet, ignoring her squall of pain. He pushed his nose into her neck and inhaled deeply. “I could smell him on you the moment I took you onto my horse. You stink of his seed, even now.”

  She reached through the fog of pain and grasped at the story Gunnar had told her. “Sir Gunnar left for Durham before dawn. I swear, my lord, I have not—”

  He hit her a third time, a vicious blow that made something in her nose snap like a dry twig, and then he let her drop as her legs gave out. “Do not dare to lie to me. All it will take is a midwife to prove you were bedded tonight.”

  He loomed over her, his face a snarl. “You will leave at dawn for Clementhorpe to rest there with the holy sisters until the wedding is arranged. If Sir Gunnar follows, if you try to run, if he disturbs the wedding or you refuse Richard at the altar or later in bed, I will feed your knight his balls before you. And then I will see him hanged slowly, with a fire beneath his feet.”

  … and that, too, would go on forever …

  The world spun and heaved, and she emptied her stomach onto the floor at her father’s feet. She spat and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, her split lip and broken nose leaving a smear of blood on the white linen. “And if I do as you ask?”

  “He goes on his way, his manhood intact, fit to spread some other maid’s legs.” He leaned down, intent on punishing her in every way. “No doubt he will find someone willing by the time Richard is spreading yours.”

  Her stomach twisted again, but she locked her teeth against the bile and ground out, “Your word. I would have your word that you will not harm him.”

  He stilled, and for a moment she thought he was going to hit her again. Then he straightened and tugged his cote smooth. “You have it, so long as I, and then Richard, have your obedience.”

  Someone pushed at the door, found it barred, and knocked.

  “Stand up.” He put his hand out. She hesitated and his lip curled. “Do you defy me already?”

  “No, my lord. I only collect myself.” She took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet and up against him in one motion. One hand cupped behind her head as he put his mouth to her ear.

  “I know women have ways to deceive men of their virtue.” His voice was harsh and barely audible. “Pray that one of the black sisters knows them and that they are convincing, for if Richard realizes he has taken a whore for a wife and annuls the marriage …”

  “You gave your word,” she whispered.

  “Then see that I have no reason to withdraw it.” He kissed her forehead, a mark of control rather than affection, then turned and walked to the door. When he pulled it open, Lucy was standing there wide-eyed, someone behind her. He shouldered past them with a grunt. “Attend to your lady. And clean the floor. She has been ill.”

  And as he vanished down the hall, Eleanor saw Anne, grinning in delight, turn to follow him.

  NOW THAT WAS odd. Gunnar reined Ghost to a halt at the end of the moat bridge and sat looking at the lowered portcullis. The iron gate had never been down this early before. He checked the walls for extra men, then twisted around to scan the meadow and woods for any sign of attack, but saw nothing. Ah, well, perhaps they were greasing the channel. The gate had been screeching mightily of late.

  “Entry,” he called.

  “Denied, Sir Gunnar,” came a voice back. “The earl said you should wait there.”

  “Is that you, Owain de Breck?”

  The grizzled knight from the tourney stepped up to show his face between the bars of the gate. “Aye.”

  “What is this about? Are the Scots on the prowl again?”

  “The earl says to wait there,” repeated Owain. He glanced over his shoulder. “He comes anon.”

  A few moments later, the heavy bolt was thrown on the adjacent man-gate and Westmorland strode out.

  “My lord.” Gunnar dismounted and met him mid-bridge. “Is there some trouble?”

  “Not war, if that is what you ask, but I do wish a word with you.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the guard tower and motioned Gunnar a little farther from the wall. “I have news, sir, regarding my daughter.”

  “Lady Eleanor?”

  “Which of my other daughters would concern you?” Westmorland’s voice carried an undercurrent of anger that raised the hairs on Gunnar’s neck. “Eleanor is betrothed, sir, and has been these five years past, to Richard le Despenser, who is Lord Burghersh and soon to be remade Earl of Gloucester.”

  “Betrothed?” A leaden coldness weighted Gunnar’s limbs, as though his blood was being drained away onto the verge. “But she never—”

  “Never told you? I thought as much.”

  “But I … that is, she … I …” Gunnar struggled to put together a thought. “I have come to ask for her hand myself,” he blurted out finally. “She said she would affirm to you that she wished it.”

  “When?”

  “Your pardon?”

  “When did she say that she would affirm it? When did she make this … assurance?”

  The sharpness in Westmorland’s question renewed Gunnar’s wariness. Had he guessed what had happened in the wood? Keeping to the lie he’d agreed to with Eleanor, he answered, “Before I rode to Durham, my lord. Three, no, four days ago. I told her I would speak to you when I returned.”

  “Indeed.” His narrowed eyes glittering with the fading light, Westmorland stared off into the west for a moment before he turned to Gunnar. “Hear me, sir, and hear me well. Eleanor is not for you. She never has been. She is meant to be a countess, like her lady mother, and she has long known it.”

  … dreamed you would take me away …

  “She doesn’t want to marry Lord Burghersh,” Gunnar whispered, half to himself, wondering if she’d lain with him merely to get his help in breaking the betrothal.

  Westmorland dismissed the idea
with a wave of his hand. “She said the vows willingly and signed the contract with her own hand, all before witnesses. I have reminded her of her duty and she is contrite, as she should be. She will be married before the month is out.” He leveled his gaze with Gunnar’s and added firmly, “Also willingly. It is done.”

  Gunnar swallowed back the bitter taste that flooded his mouth. “Aye, my lord, it is. If I had known she was promised elsewhere, it would never have begun.”

  “Good. I would have had Eleanor make apology herself, but she knows she used you poorly and has no courage to face you. She is still young, monsire, and I fear she got caught up in the trifling leading to May Day. Forgive her, sir. And forget her.”

  “Yes, my lord,” he said, though it was unlikely he would do either.

  Westmorland clasped his hands behind his back and pursed his lips. “I regret that Eleanor has caused us this trouble. I have greatly enjoyed your company. Perhaps in future, when she is well settled with Richard and surrounded by babes, you and I can be companions once more.”

  Never. “Perhaps, my lord. Tell the lady I wish her joy in her mar—” The words choked him, and he had to clear his throat and try again. “In her marriage to Lord Burghersh. I will not trouble her or you again.”

  Westmorland gave a curt nod and spun on his heel, leaving Gunnar to stare at his back as he strode across the bridge.

  The man-gate shut behind him with a clang that echoed in Gunnar’s belly. He remembered this feeling. It was the same gutted hollowness he’d felt when he’d learned that Kolla had begged her lover to carry her away.

  Now he was the lover, and he’d almost let Eleanor persuade him to do the same thing to another man.

  What he’d said to Westmorland was truth: if he’d known, he never would have stayed after the tourney, never would have pursued Eleanor. But how much pursuing did he actually do? Every little seduction she’d wielded against him came flooding back: the subtle touches, the perfume, the way she’d come down to him in the night without him even asking. Even the words she’d spoken as she gave herself to him in the forest.

  There is a reason I’m here …

  Aye, a reason, all right. She wanted out of a poor marriage contract. Treachery. Fire and treachery. She was no different from Kolla at all.

  He swung up on Ghost and turned him toward the forest north of the castle, intending to put as much distance as he could between himself and Eleanor. He knew from experience that this strange, empty calm wouldn’t last, and he needed to be well away before it broke, before all the frustration and anger and loneliness came boiling up from wherever it hid below the void, and he raged against the Nornir for leaving him naked and alone, facing the agony of yet another dawn.

  “COULD YOU HIT him from here?” Westmorland asked the captain of the archers, who stood beside him on the wall as he watched Sir Gunnar gallop away.

  The fellow wet his finger and stuck it in the air to check the wind, then pulled an arrow from his quiver, fitted it to his longbow, and half drew the string. “Do you want him dead, my lord, or merely wounded?”

  Westmorland hesitated.

  “My lord? It is getting dark and he is nearly out of range.”

  “It is a difficult decision, good archer. He truly was a pleasant companion.”

  Pleasant but treacherous. It was so tempting to punish that treachery. But in the end, he kept his word to Eleanor and let her lover ride out of range and into the wood. “If you see him within a mile of Lady Eleanor before she bears an heir to Lord Burghersh, take him alive and bring him to me in chains.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The bowman eased the tension off the string and stood down. “I will pass the word.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “MOVE ON, NEWT.” Gunnar flicked the little beast away and dragged the stool over by the fire to try to dry out.

  It was a futile effort. He was damp to the skin, all the fine, warm weather of early May having vanished in a bank of fog that had rolled off the northern sea the selfsame day he’d reached the dene, as though the weather was determined to mirror his mood. It had lain here ever since, over a fortnight now, squatting over everything like a great white toad, sucking the warmth out of everything and leaving the cave he and Jafri used as shelter even danker than usual. Moisture ran down the cave walls and dripped from the yews outside like rain. Moss bloomed in furry green mounds that covered every rock and log.

  And then there were the newts. They’d always been plentiful, but with no need to hide beneath the forest litter to stay damp, they scuttled over everything like so many ants—even over Gunnar, if he sat still too long. Too bad the little devils weren’t fit to eat. He could have his fill every day three times over for a year and there would still be plenty left to breed.

  “But even you won’t touch the foul things, will you?” he said to the wolf who had crept in behind him, so wet and miserable that he was willing to tolerate the close company of man to lie by the fire. Gunnar took one of the squirrels he’d snared and tossed it the wolf’s direction. “There you go.”

  Watching warily through yellow eyes, the beast stretched his neck to sniff at the squirrel. Satisfied the offering wasn’t a trick, he tugged it close and started tearing at the tender belly. Gunnar skinned the other two squirrels, skewered them on sticks, and propped them over the fire. He’d just begun scraping the skins clean for tanning when the wolf lifted his head, a low growl humming in his throat.

  Knife in hand, Gunnar came to his feet and stepped to the entrance. The one good thing about the fog was the way it hid their fire. Day or night, no one would guess anyone was in the dene at all, unless they knew where to look.

  So either someone knew or some fool was lost, because even with the blanket of fog muffling sounds, Gunnar could hear two horses picking their way up the stream bank from the direction of the sea, snapping twigs and kicking stones as they came. From the pen, Ghost and the rouncey whinnied nervously, and the approaching horses answered. Whoever they were, they weren’t trying to be quiet. That was a good sign.

  And then the squawk of a raven cut through the fog, followed by a man’s voice. “Quiet, bird. They must be here. I hear the wolf growling.”

  “He always did growl a lot,” said a second man. Gunnar hadn’t heard either voice in years, but he knew both instantly.

  Brand and Torvald. And Ari, of course, in the raven form he took each night. Gunnar’s tension drained away, only to be replaced by irritation. Years without seeing them, and they show up now, when he most wanted to be alone. Ah, well, Jafri would find Ari’s company pleasant, he supposed. With a sigh, Gunnar pulled a partly burning log off the fire and went out to guide his crewmates in. “Keep bearing this way. You’re almost here.”

  The wolf gave one last growl, picked up his half-eaten squirrel, and trotted off into the fog, headed up the dene to finish his meal in peace. A moment later, the pair came riding out of the dark, Brand on a huge dappled horse, carrying the raven on his shoulder, and Torvald on a nondescript rouncey that would serve as a pack horse by day, when Ari would ride the white stallion that Torvald became. They exchanged greetings with much thumping of backs, then quickly unloaded the horses and led them into the pen to join his and Jafri’s animals. As they collected the gear to carry inside, Torvald wordlessly tossed a bag to Gunnar.

  He could smell it without even opening it. “Fresh bread?”

  “Baked just this morning.” Brand swung his saddle up over one shoulder and the packsaddle over the other. “We thought you could use it.”

  “Always. Was your journey good?” Gunnar asked as they stacked things in the back of the cave, away from the damp wall.

  “It was till we hit this fog. ’Tis thick as cream up there. We rode right past the castle. I didn’t even see the torches. I only realized where we were when we reached the sea.”

  “Fog or no, there are no more torches to be seen. The castle is empty now and already falling down, and the village burned. Yoden, too,” he added, referring to the tiny
hamlet that had lain to the north of the dene.

  “War?” asked Brand.

  “Plague. Two score of years ago. Maybe more.”

  “Has it been so long since we were here?”

  “Aye.” Gunnar upended a couple of unsplit logs near the fire and motioned for them to sit. “So many died, there weren’t enough left to till the land. The last few burned the cottages and fled.” He poked at the squirrels with the tip of his knife and decided they needed more time. “Men turn up now and then to knock down walls and cart off a few stones, but mostly things just sit. Another few years and you’ll never know men ever lived there at all.”

  “That should suit you,” said Brand. “Less chance of anyone seeing you if no one’s around.”

  “No one ever came down here anyway. We had them convinced that monsters live in the caves and pool. Where have you two been?” asked Gunnar. The raven chattered angrily, and he amended, “I mean, you three.”

  “Shropshire and Wales,” said Torvald, and left it for Brand to fill in the reason and flesh out the story.

  As they talked, the squirrels finished roasting and they ate, stretching the meager meat to make a meal for three with thick slabs of bread, and washing everything down with ale from one of the skins Brand had brought. By the time they tossed the well-sucked bones into the fire, Gunnar knew about Brand’s most recent effort to track down Cwen, the ancient treasure they had stumbled on instead of their amulets, where to find good hiding places along the Welsh march, and that Rorik and Kjell had finally abandoned their wenching in Hampshire.

  “One of the king’s huntsmen shot the hart in the flank,” said Brand, touching his left side to show where Kjell had been hit. “He only escaped because it was near sunset. They decided things are too crowded and that they needed to move on. Last I knew, they were headed this way. I’m surprised you haven’t seen them.”

  “Likely we missed them,” said Gunnar. “We were in the west for nearly three years. We only just came back.”