Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

  "Yes, this. Which has saved the lives of these good people. Were I a man such as you I'd have never bested these murderers. See me as I am, not as what you fear!"

  But Edward couldn't seem to take his gaze from the wound and shook his head. " 'Tis not natural. It goes against God."

  Richard held up the cross. "Were that true, then let Him strike me down." They each waited, but nothing happened. Richard stepped forward and pressed the cross into his brother's hand. There was blood on it. "See? We both abide under His sky. Guard you the day and I the night. There's room enough for us all."

  Edward continued to shake his head. He was not in utter rejection, this was more like being overwhelmed and unable to take it in. "I must pray . . . and see to the fallen."

  "Very well. This is an evil thing to come to us. You're needed here."

  "And for some I've come too late." He seemed infinitely sad.

  "No, think that not! What's happened to me has been a gift bestowed to help me better serve. Without it you and likely everyone in this camp would be dead instead of—by God, I never thought I'd have to raise my sword against the d'Orleans banner. Are these men of the house or did you hire them for your journey?"

  "They are of the house. Ambert sent them to the monastery to be my esco—oh, St. Michael protect us." Edward bowed his head, crossing himself. "I had a suspicion, but no, he couldn't have. It's too iniquitous."

  "Yet you set up that ruse in the tent. Is that why you were in the trees?"

  "Yes, waiting there, watching. I had a feeling something was not right. And then I heard . . . I saw what you were doing to that girl . . ."

  "She's all right."

  "But—"

  "See for yourself." Richard gestured off to the side where Sabra energetically directed a rough cleanup of what had become a battlefield. Their men were dragging bodies together in a row like logs, and a knot of the women saw to a wounded survivor. "Trust me on this, not for all the world would I see harm come to her or anyone else under my protection—which includes you. I have pledged my life to that."

  "But the means you've used . . ."

  He held up his sword. "This is the means. The change in me makes me stronger and quicker—"

  Edward backed away, one hand waving, palm out. "No, this is too much. I can't . . ." He did not finish, but turned and left.

  Richard almost started after him, but caught Sabra looking his way and forced himself to stillness. Sudden, leadlike weariness settled on him. He would need some hours of rest to fully heal and to take more blood. There were plenty of dead to serve for that. He would feed from them, but not just yet.

  He called for servants to come and deal with the bodies here, to carry them over with the others, then fled into his tent, out of sight of the coming sun.

  * * *

  From the thick shade of the woods Richard and Sabra watched as graves were dug in the noontime glare. Edward occupied himself giving the dead of both sides the proper rites. He moved from one to the next, the cowl of his black robe pushed back, his head bowed, lips moving from prayers he'd said a thousand times and more. Richard, his shoulder still aching, was rather less charitable concerning the fate of some of those souls.

  "They'd have murdered a holy man as he slept," he said to Sabra. "My brother is old now, what harm could he possibly be to anyone?"

  "You know the answer. So does he. Neither of you like it."

  "I can believe it. He doesn't want to."

  "He is a good man and would prefer to see only the best in others. When they don't live up to that it makes the truth a difficult thing for him to accept. He's been disappointed many times, but still he hopes."

  There, the last one blessed and prayed over, the last spade of earth in place to cover his corruption.

  "My lord bishop!" Richard called.

  Edward heard, and after a moment trudged over, standing away from them in the now hot sun, sweat running down his face, his hands dirty from the fresh-turned earth. He was so weary, so old in the harsh light. Every seam on his skin was cut deeper than before, his fair hair gone silver, the look in his eyes heartbreaking. He spared one curious glance at Sabra, who was still in her bloodstained page clothes, partly covered by a winter-heavy cloak. "Yes?"

  "Tell me one thing: did you go to d'Orleans and see Father yourself?"

  Clearly this was not the question he expected. "No. I got a letter from Ambert. He pleaded with me to hurry. The men he sent carried supplies and coin to speed us to look for you."

  That alone was cause for suspicion. Ambert never did a charitable deed unless he got something in return for it. Edward must have thought the calamity of a dying father had softened him. "Ambert knew you and I have been in contact over the years. Knew you would be the only one able to find me."

  "And I came too late. My poor brother Richard died years ago. I will pray for his soul. And I won't trouble Ambert with this."

  Richard sneered. "Ambert? You know he was behind this! Those were his men instructed to kill us both when the time was right." He gestured at the graves and waited.

  Edward only crossed himself.

  "The other certainty is our father is already dead. Ambert brought this about to make sure neither of us made any demand for our share of the inheritance. Ambert is not the taunting boy we sparred with; he's darker and more deadly than ever Father was, and was ever greedy. It's no one's fault, just what is."

  "But from our own brother, our own blood . . ." He swiped a dirty hand over his eyes, leaving tear streaks in the sweat, then looked at Richard. "All men change, not always for the good. No one is the same as before, none of us, and some are worse and some are lost. I am alone now, but for God." He turned away.

  Once more Richard perceived that same terrible sadness from the day of their last practice, when Edward accidentally killed the armsman. Edward's walk was the same, consumed with defeat and despair.

  Sabra, thickly hooded against the sun and silent until now, broke from Richard and went to Edward. He halted to look at her.

  "You know me," she said, with certainty.

  "And you, too, are the same as you were from that time so long ago. I'm sorry, but I cannot—"

  "What did I do?"

  "You came dressed as a Holy Sister to bring me to see . . ." He cast a helpless eye toward Richard.

  "Because you needed to be with him," she said. "And he with you."

  "But you're . . ." he could not speak the words.

  "Charity, good father. Judge us by our deeds, not by your fears."

  "I've tried, but—"

  "See me as I am," she whispered.

  The change was subtle, but even in the daylight Richard saw a glow about her that had nothing to do with the sun. She put a hand on Edward's arm and looked deeply into his eyes for a very long time. Whatever he saw there must have spoken to him, for he finally nodded, the stiffness in his shoulders easing.

  "Be at peace, my brother," she told him.

  For all that, he still looked troubled.

  * * *

  Quick preparations were made for everyone's departure. The last of Ambert's murderous escort had been caught and would be taken north to Joyeuse Garde, Richard's stronghold. Elaine would look after them until there was time to spare to render a verdict on them for the attempted murder of an archbishop.

  The whole camp gathered itself and pulled out, heading for the main road. When they reached the juncture of the lanes, Richard nudged his horse over to stand next to Edward's mount.

  Edward gave him a polite farewell, speaking the expected words, but did not quite meet his eye. Perhaps Sabra had imparted some peace to him, but it was that of a forced truce; there was no true healing between them.

  Richard thought this would be the last time they would ever see each other and the grief of it tore at his heart. He looked at Sabra. She smiled and shook her head and pointed up the road, not down, which was the way Edward originally came, the way he would have take to return to Normandy.

  "Y
ou're sure?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  "Sure of what?" asked Edward, thinking he'd been addressed.

  Richard gestured. "This isn't your road. You must take another."

  "But it's my way back."

  "Not anymore. You cannot return there. Not for a while, yet."

  "What are you saying? I don't care if Ambert has a hundred deaths for me. I am needed home. They await me at the monastery—"

  "You are needed here, now. There's an abbey not too far from this spot in Glastonbury. Our people will see you safely there. Shelter with the monks, speak to the abbot. Let him tell you what your dead brother has been doing all these years, and then decide whether you still think me Godless and cursed."

  Edward had no response for that. But perhaps, just perhaps, there was an awakening glimmer in his eyes. What it meant remained to be discovered.

  "Safe journey, brother. Pray for our father for the both of us."

  Letting himself be led the other way, Edward rode off, casting one unreadable glance back at them, then pressing on.

  "When will I see him again?" Richard well knew the perils of asking about the future, but couldn't help himself.

  "When next you are needed," said Sabra. "He will be healthier there than anyplace else."

  "What of the path he would have taken?"

  "Ours now, along with the danger it holds. We shall deal well with it, my Richard." She rode with a sword the same as the men and checked to see that it was loose in its scabbard. "Let's not keep the traitors waiting."

  She kicked her horse up, and they cantered to meet the threat lying ahead.

  Chapter Ten

  Toronto, the Present

  "What do you mean?" Richard demanded. Time was short; the delay angered him. "What other road is there?"

  Michael shook his head. "I don't know, but this is to protect her."

  He remembered the cryptic words on the computer screen. "How will her dying protect her? There's no sense to it."

  "It just will, that's all I know."

  "I won't let her go like this. Not when I can—"

  "But it's only a change. She told me I've been through it hundreds of times. It can't be so bad."

  Richard gaped at him, mouth dry, mind reeling. Surely not. The Goddess would do something, make things different, and save her. She wouldn't do this to Sabra, not to her. If she did . . . no. No matter what, he wouldn't let that happen. He'd do whatever was necessary to keep her alive.

  But he'd defied the Goddess once before. Or tried to.

  He looked at Michael, a young boy who understood too much. "I won't let her die."

  It's not your choice.

  He shivered as an instantly familiar voice whispered in his mind. "Sabra?" He stared around, knowing it was futile.

  All will be well. Bear this, my love. You have strength to . . .

  "I will not bear this!"

  You will! For Michael! You WILL! And then the precious voice ceased. He waited, holding his breath for another word until his chest ached.

  "Sabra . . . ?"

  No reply.

  It was the worst, most absolute silence Richard had ever known, as though he'd been struck deaf.

  Michael let out a keening whimper and shuddered. Tears ran free down his face. Richard knew what happened and it hit like a sword thrust. He staggered; his insides felt ripped out, and he gave a soft cry, his soul's denial.

  Bourland slowly pushed through the door. His face told all. He couldn't speak, only bow his head. He sat heavily on a waiting room chair. Michael went to him, hand on his shoulder. Without looking up, he wrapped his arms around the weeping boy and held him close.

  Paralysis crept over Richard and took solid hold, trapping him in sheer, yawning emptiness. He wanted the earth to open up and swallow him. This was beyond endurance, beyond his strength; she was gone, yet he remained. That could not be. It was others whose lives came and went, flourished and faded, but they were always together. That never changed.

  Alone.

  Truly alone. Never to see her again. It was too much.

  No, I cannot, will not go on . . .

  He stared down the long vanishing length of the hospital corridor. It stretched to infinity, full of harsh light, hard corners, and busy, unconcerned strangers.

  * * *

  "For all the good it will do, there's a full investigation on," Bourland tiredly said.

  "All right," Richard acknowledged in a hollow voice so soft as to almost go unheard. He was yet in shock, he thought. He found himself reacting to things people said, but was strangely insulated from them. There was considerable sympathy floating about and some fear; quite a number of the staff had been very shaken by the incident in the ICU. Bourland's plans promised to shake things even more.

  The police had come and gone, leaving behind patrolmen. Reassuring, but only to civilians. After that, some of the internal excitement diminished and routine reasserted itself to some extent. Of course, everyone knew something of what had happened, and they all knew Richard, Bourland, and Michael were closely involved. Professionalism prevented the hospital staff from asking direct questions, which was a blessing.

  Midmorning had come and gone, but one could only tell by looking at a clock. They were still in a place where losing track of time was an ongoing hazard, and it was a very dark day outside.

  Richard felt cold, unable to warm up at all, though there was plenty of heat in the room, and he kept his coat on. Bouts of shivering swept over him at unexpected times, and he desperately wanted to sleep, but couldn't seem to close his eyes. Whenever he did it was like turning up the volume on the ambient sounds of the place. Sitting made him restless, but he was too weary to pace. Once he left for the mens' room and for the first time in years doubled over as his belly tried to turn itself inside out. Nothing came forth, only retching misery, followed by icy sweats. He went through that drill for nearly an hour before the fit passed.

  Exhausted, he crept back to be with Bourland and sat on the floor, his bowed spine pressed to a wall because he couldn't trust himself to not fall out of a chair. He turned away offers of help and suggestions to have a sedative.

  Bourland understood and got people to leave him alone.

  The worst, most damnable part of it was Richard could not weep.

  For those raised under certain social rules, it wasn't the done thing for a man to cry, but even Bourland, grown up in that generation, had broken down for a time.

  Richard tried. Nothing came forth. He rubbed his eyes to see if they were working and raised a sting of watering, but no tears.

  Shock. That's all it is.

  When his gut settled and some strength returned, he crept into a chair by a small conference table and sat for a time, trying to notice other people besides himself. Bourland looked haggard, but functioning; Michael was off in a nearby hospital room, asleep, thankfully, after that first storm of reaction. A policeman stood outside, alert for one-eyed strangers.

  Richard longed for the luxury of oblivion, but he would put it off; he would ignore the blackness. He had but one reason to keep moving: to find Sabra's killer . . . and deal with him.

  Bourland channeled his own postponed grief in compulsive activity, doing what he did best, setting wheels in motion. He'd spoken to the top people of the hospital's administration, talked to their security, talked to the cops, talked to God knows who else, and managed to commandeer someone's office. He made a call to the special outfit that was so secret, bulled through to their director and damnation to their security protocols. He made demands and got someone to listen.

  He filled Richard in. "Two of their best people are on the way to look after us, but their prime concern will be to bodyguard Michael; they're also bringing photos. They have shots of arrivals from the Yucatán. Too bad the hospital's surveillance tapes were buggered. There's some techs looking into the problem. The whole damned system . . ."

  Richard nodded bleakly.

  "Coffee? You look as th
ough you could use some."

  "No, thank you. I still feel woozy." Richard had no idea how coffee could possibly help.

  "Richard?"

  "Yes, what?" He jolted from wherever he'd gone, startled by what a wall clock told him. Apparently an hour had slipped by unnoticed while he stared into space. Focus. Wake the hell up and focus. He pulled himself together by remembering what it felt like to be that way. Fake it 'til you make it.

  "They're here."

  Through the office window he observed a man and woman approaching, each in black leather coats, wearing designer sunglasses on a sunless day. They were of a kind, and Richard recognized the genus.

  "What lovely people you know," he murmured to Bourland.

  "Hm?"

  "Those two killers." He saw that much in their body language, the way they held their heads. The man in particular, moving like a panther. The woman was better at blending, her walk influenced by her heeled boots, but still unmistakable to anyone who knew the signals. Or lack thereof.

  "It's a nasty world, isn't it? But they're on our side for the time being."

  Richard noted the qualifier. "Are they from . . . ?"

  "Yes. For your own well-being pretend you don't know that particular department exists. They're rather appalling about keeping their security intact."

  Bourland had called in serious firepower. This was a few steps beyond the guards ordered up to keep watch.

  The couple simply came in; neither identified themselves. The man was lean and dark, in need of a shave and haircut. He handed over a flat, padded envelope without preamble. He didn't remove his sunglasses, but Richard knew he was being closely examined and memorized, the information to be added to whatever dossier they kept on him. He didn't give a damn.

  The woman was more accessible, pushing her shades up on her forehead to hold back her straight blond bangs. She gave Richard a small, neutral smile. A lithe and lovely blue-eyed charmer, evidently trained in seduction, keeping it dampened down until needed. That was likely one of their ploys when working. One for distraction, the other for destruction, switching roles as needed for any given situation. Richard nodded once at her, to be polite, then shifted his attention to Bourland's envelope.