by Tamara Leigh
His nostrils flared.
“Bayard, I love as you love, and since I cannot swing a sword to protect one dear to me, allow me to be the distraction your men need to free Griffin ere ’tis too late.”
He turned his face toward the church, and she found hope in that.
Griffin must have as well, for he called, “Do not, Boursier!”
“If I lose him, Bayard, I lose myself.”
He looked back at her, jerked his chin. “Go only as far as a pace back from the old baron and Father Crispin. And if you are tempted to break your word to me, consider that if your husband survives and you do not, he will go to his grave trying to kill me—all the good come of our marriages undone.”
He could not have said anything else that would have better enticed her to keep her vow. “Save the man I love,” she said and began to dismount.
How Griffin bellowed! But there was unexpected good in his protest she saw as she stepped from the stirrup to the ground. Under cover of his din, one of the knights on the right side of the church opened a shutter and disappeared inside.
Lest her notice captured Simon or Otto’s attention, she did not attempt to delve the church’s dim interior to ascertain how far the man advanced on Otto. Her task was to allow him and others to draw near enough to bring Griffin out alive.
“That is far enough, Quintin,” Bayard called.
She halted behind Ulric and Father Crispin, one to her right, the other to her left.
“Closer!” Simon Foucault commanded when Griffin quieted.
“So you can murder me as well as my betrothed?” she scoffed. “Nay, I shall not further dishonor the Foucault name by being so fool to believe our kinship means anything to you.”
Though she feared he would order Otto to make Griffin scream, he said, “You are close enough. ’Twill suffice.”
Ignoring the threat in his words, she said, “Now a question to which I am fair certain I know the answer. Was it you who murdered my mother?”
“’Twas. And it was easily done since that Christmas Day at Adderstone was the first I had looked near upon her since she was a girl I called my little Maeve.”
Quintin had expected as much, that all communication between brother and sister had gone through Agatha.
“But old Maeve forced me to it. When she recognized Sir Francis Cartier as her brother, I knew that if not that day, another she would betray her family again, revealing all she had held close to keep you safe. A pity she proved so resistant to the plan to restore Kilbourne.”
A plan Quintin was tempted to reveal had been doomed from the moment the cuckolding of Bayard Boursier was conceived.
“Had your mother stayed the course, I would have spared her though she happily wed one who betrayed our father. And so she died, though I vow it was a kind death.”
“Kind!” Quintin exclaimed louder than intended when she glimpsed not one but two shadowed figures beyond Griffin and Otto.
“Aye, I let her go quickly and quietly, rather than slowly and screaming as she deserved. Only the softest, feather-filled pillow for my old Maeve.”
Conjuring a vision of her mother’s struggle beneath that pillow, Quintin choked, “You sicken me.”
He fanned a hand before his face. “Alas, it cannot be helped.”
“Nay, I am sickened by what is inside you. Rather, what is not inside you.”
“Ah well, the De Arells, Boursiers, and Verduns must answer for that, not the heir to the great barony of Kilbourne who waited more than twenty-five years to reclaim what was stolen from him.”
“And who failed. Utterly.”
“Not utterly. Though I did not foresee this day when all I would have to show for my efforts was…” He lifted a finger. “The death of Archard Boursier.” Another finger. “Bayard Boursier’s eye. Serle de Arell’s sword arm. Verdun’s whore of a sister sentenced to the convent. My sister’s death.” He looked to his five raised fingers, folded them, and lifted two. “And soon the lives of Ulric de Arell and the traitorous priest.” He chuckled. “Now I count them, it occurs Aude and I did quite well.”
“But not Otto?” Quintin said, then exaggerated a gasp she prayed would cover the creak of a shutter. “Of course not. He shall number among those you count on your fingers like a child citing the reasons he deserves another pastry.” She moved her gaze to his son’s face visible over Griffin’s shoulder. “I am sorry for you, Otto. Sorry you are but a finger on your father’s hand when you could have been a knight of great standing and honor. I know it. I saw it in you the same as did your lord, who would not otherwise have entrusted you with his daughter.”
A shiver went down her spine when she caught the glitter of tears and movement of the dagger that opened a gap between the blade and Griffin’s throat. Then fear raced back up it when her husband’s head lowered to hang upon his chest. If the knights drawing near did not act quickly, Griffin would collapse.
“The siren tries to lure you, Otto,” Simon called.
“Sadly, she does not speak false,” his son said. “And long I have known it, that you—”
Griffin’s head snapped up and back, and a crack like lightning sounded, followed by Otto’s cry as the blow to his face knocked him back and splayed his arms.
Then everywhere, motion and clamor.
Griffin swung his bound arms around and followed Otto to the floor.
The men who had stolen into the church transformed from shadows into warriors.
Horses hooves, barked orders, and the ring of bridles and rattling of spurs.
The flash of steel as Simon Foucault lunged toward the defenseless Ulric de Arell, Quintin, and the priest.
Her name shouted, the sweep of an arm from the left and right, one striking her in the chest, the other across her middle.
The breath of arrows set to flight, a glimpse of their penetration of the arm, belly, and thigh of Simon Foucault whose sword swung from on high, Bayard spurring past her.
Then she hit the ground, and a shout in her ear that sounded of Father Crispin and moisture slashing across her neck and chest.
“Bayard!” Quintin tried to send her brother’s name past her lips, but the weight on her chest denied her air. She pushed it off, and as it rolled to the side, she saw it was the priest, his face clenched with pain. And pinning her shoulder on the other side was the unmasked, heavily panting Ulric de Arell.
Realizing the two had borne her to the ground and the moisture on her was blood, she cried, “Nay!” and sat up. As she dragged Crispin into her arms, she saw the hopelessness of Simon Foucault.
Though put through with arrows, chest torn open by what had to have been Bayard’s blade, he struggled up from his knees and, retaining hold of his sword, stumbled back from the two barons who had come down from their horses.
“Dear Lord, dear Lord,” she chanted as she searched beyond them.
Griffin was on the church floor, but that was all she could see past the knights bent over him. She had to reach him, but Crispin bled—
And forget not the promise you made, she reminded herself, and only for that was she grateful for the need to hold the priest. Otherwise, she might find herself at the mercy of a dying Foucault.
Lowering her head toward Crispin’s, she prayed for him, Griffin, and Ulric, and all those who risked their lives to end the Foucault threat. As she did so, she fumbled a hand to the old baron and set it on his shoulder.
“My son?” he croaked.
“I know not,” she whispered, “but no further harm can be done him.” Then she returned to her pleading with the Lord that when Ulric passed from this world he would do so knowing he left his son behind, and that she would grow old at the side of the man she loved.
Simon Foucault was dying. Not on the edge of Boursier’s or Verdun’s sword, but on the arrow shafts leaking the life from him. And he was not going quickly or quietly. But his son…
Griffin raised heavy lids and focused as best he could on the one lowering beside him. Not Quintin
. The physician. As the man set to tending the arrow wound, Griffin turned his head to the side.
Neither was Otto going quickly, but he was going quietly, the light in Foucault brown eyes dimming as he cupped a hand over his neck as if it were possible to keep the blood in. That injury he had dealt himself.
Amidst Simon’s boasting, Griffin had awaited a moment worthy of risking all to free himself—and thought it lost when Otto tensed with the creaking of the shutter. But rather than warn his father, he had hesitated, and that hesitation had stretched when Quintin challenged Simon over his son’s worth.
Though the young knight had seemed close to abandoning the Foucault cause, when a space opened between flesh and blade, Griffin had seized that opportunity.
The blow to his injured head had been blinding, the backward thrust of Otto’s body causing the dagger’s point to rise and catch Griffin’s jaw before—ironically—slicing his captor’s throat. Thus, Otto would pay the highest price, one Griffin might also pay, but not until Quintin was at his side. He must remain conscious.
“Griffin.” Her voice was taut with the pleading of one who feared an answer would not be forthcoming, and he realized he had closed his eyes.
As he struggled to open them, she said, “Can you save him?”
“He has lost much blood, my lady, and I know not the extent of the injuries to his head and innards, but I shall do all I can.”
“Quintin, come away.” This from The Boursier. “Allow the physician—”
“I will not.” She caught up Griffin’s hands. “Pray, cut his bonds, Bayard.”
Griffin felt the flat of a blade between his wrists, then the rope fell away and one of his hands was fit into his wife’s and raised to soft lips.
“Griffin”—her breath fanned his skin—“this morn…” She swallowed. “This morn you said never had you as great a cause to be victorious than now I am with you. Pray, continue to be victorious—for your family and your people. For me.”
He narrowly opened his lids and saw a smile of encouragement move onto her lips. “There you are, my love. Do not go into the dark. Draw near me.”
The dark was tempting, so weary and hurting was he that he had not enough strength to do more than groan as the physician probed his gored flesh. But he lifted his lids higher and rasped, “I am with you. My father?”
She muffled a sob, said, “He fell hard when he and the priest protected me from Simon, but methinks he will be fine.”
“Father Crispin?”
She hesitated. “He took Foucault’s blade to the back, but he lives.”
“How long?” he croaked.
“I know not.” She looked up. “Bayard, your wine skin.”
As liquid sweeter than any Griffin had tasted trickled across his tongue, he saw Thomasin lower alongside Quintin, her husband over her shoulder.
“I must extract the arrowhead ere we move him to Mathe,” the physician said. “Give him as much wine as he can take.”
As more was eased past Griffin’s lips, Simon Foucault shrieked a curse at his son, causing Quintin to peer over her shoulder.
Following her gaze, Griffin saw Otto draw a rattling breath and shift near lifeless eyes to the one who was to have been his prize. “Lady, I thank you…for seeing in me…what could have been. Had I known sooner…”
She inclined her head. “I spoke true, Sir Otto, and also wish you had known sooner. I shall pray that what you had not on earth you find when you leave us.”
He looked past her. “Lady Thomasin, I hope one day you will…think upon forgiving me.”
“Aye,” she said small.
Eyes closing, body easing, he went into the dark where Griffin commanded himself not to go. But as Quintin once more slid wine onto his tongue, consciousness receded and he silently pleaded with the Lord that he not wander too far from her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“The physician does all he can, but he has not much hope. He says ’tis for God to decide.”
Emotions clamoring for expression since the day past when word had come of Griffin’s capture, Quintin lowered her chin and let her tears fall to her clasped hands. “If only he had not made himself my savior.”
Bayard touched her shoulder. “’Twas instinct to protect one he loves—the same as once you sought to protect me.”
She looked up. “But ’twas not necessary!”
“He and the old baron could not have known there was space enough for me to ride on Simon Foucault ere he reached you.”
“And so we shall lose Crispin.”
“If the Lord does not answer our prayers as we wish.”
“Then we must needs pray harder.”
“So we shall.” He jutted his chin toward the bed. “Your husband?”
Grateful for the constant Arturo stretched on the floor alongside his master, eyes on his mistress, she looked to Griffin. Though the sheet drawn up his chest concealed the worst of his injuries, his face was a mess and looked all the worse for the bandage wound around his brow that secured a poultice to the wound at the back of his head. Of less concern were the cuts to his back—providing they did not become infected.
“Several times throughout the night he briefly awakened, and always he knew me and asked after Crispin and his father. But only once this day, when Rhys was within, did he return to consciousness. Though he assured his son he will soon be out of bed, he struggled to hide his pain.”
“The physician remains confident he will recover?”
“Aye, but I fear for him.”
“You have not slept, Quintin. You must rest.”
“My place is here.”
“So ’tis. Thus, you ought to lie down with your husband.”
That surprised. As it was not yet known she was Griffin’s wife, it would appear unseemly, whether it was the physician, a servant, or Rhys who next entered.
“Until you awaken,” Bayard said, “I will keep watch over you both.”
She was so weary she felt nauseated, but before she could speak one way or the other, her brother swung her into his arms and carried her across the solar. Lowering her to the right of her husband, he left a space between them she longed to cross. But it was best she not disturb Griffin.
As Bayard ignored Arturo’s growl and settled into the chair on the opposite side, Quintin turned toward Griffin, slid a hand across the mattress, and curled her fingers over his. And slept.
The scent of torches.
The rumble of lowered voices.
Quintin opened her eyes to find night had once more drawn its curtains closed. Beside her, torchlight kind to his beaten face, Griffin conversed with Bayard who sat forward in the chair he had surely occupied for hours.
“So now the missive is sent, we wait on the king’s response,” her brother said. “As there are witnesses aplenty to attest to the truth of his prized mercenary, I anticipate no retaliation. Indeed, we may even be shown favor for the wrong done us—hopefully, beginning with your brother.”
“For Constance,” Griffin said, “I fear Serle would have let them into Mathe.”
Quintin basked in the sound of his voice. It was not its strong, gruff self, but neither was it weak and disjointed as it had been during his earlier awakenings. It sounded unhurried and even—much like after they made love.
“Thus, Serle cannot long remain upon our lands,” Bayard said. “For that, I once more asked the king to use his influence to release Constance from the convent. With her at his side and a purse full of coins, they can make a life far from here.”
“Aye, for the best.” Griffin sighed. “Now, ere I once more sleep”—he looked around—“I would speak with my wife.”
He had known of her awakening, and neither did her brother’s face reflect surprise.
Bayard rose stiffly from the chair, flashed her a smile as he pressed his shoulders forward and backward, then strode across the solar. “The physician has come and gone, Sister,” he said as he opened the door. “The night is yours.”
“He remains with us.”
“What does the physician say?”
He hesitated. “There is hope, but Crispin was not well ere he was injured.”
She nodded, and as the door closed, sent up another prayer. When she looked around, her gaze was momentarily captured by Arturo, who had risen to his haunches to rest his chin on the mattress alongside his master.
Quintin studied Griffin, noted the fresh bandage on his shoulder, and set her eyes to blue. “Good eve, Husband.”
“Good eve, Wife.”
“I am ashamed to have slept through the physician’s visit. Certes, he was scandalized to find me abed and that my brother allowed it.”
He slid his hand out from under hers and touched the ring that had slipped from beneath her bodice. “He knows. I showed him this. And soon all will know how long we have loved.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Then no wedding before all?”
“Aye, still we shall publicly speak vows so others may celebrate our blessing, but until then, you shall be at my side whenever and wherever you wish.”
“That is ever and ever.”
A twitch at his mouth promised a smile. “I am tempted to forget to be angry with you, Quintin.”
“Angry? With me?”
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he did so narrowly. But not out of censure, she was certain. Sleep called to him. “Aye, angry with you. And your brother for placing you in danger.”
She scooted nearer, put an elbow to the pillow alongside his, and propped her head on a hand. “In defense of Bayard, I gave him little choice. In defense of me, ’twould seem the only way to keep me out of harm’s way is to stop me from loving. And surely you do not wish that.”
Another promise of a smile. “Better that than lose you.”
“Of which there is much less chance now Simon and Otto Foucault are dead.”
He squeezed his eyes closed, opened them wide. “Though I do not approve, I am grateful you helped make possible an end to the Foucaults—that my son is not fatherless, my wife is not husbandless.” He shifted on the mattress, groaned. “My back aches. Would that I could turn onto my side.”