Rendezvous With Yesterday

by Dianne Duvall

  Stepping to one side, Beth seated herself on the top step. Resting her feet upon the third step, she propped her elbows on her knees, cupped her chin in her hands, and waited, cold stone chilling her bottom.

  The sun sank behind the curtain wall. Pinks and oranges morphed into purples and blacks. The flickering light of torches appeared at intervals upon the battlements. Periodically men’s faces, mostly hidden by helmets, faded in and out of view as the guards paced and kept watch, ensuring the safety of all within.

  It was quiet here, too. There were no airplanes or jets roaring past above. No police helicopters circling as they searched for criminals from the safety of the sky. No cars creeping past, booming bass so loudly it rattled the house’s windows. No car alarms screeching or honking. No horns blaring. No sirens screaming. No gunshots shattering the night. Or day. There wasn’t even the familiar hum of the refrigerator, beep of the microwave, flush of the toilet or whoosh of the air conditioner turning on.

  Just quiet.

  Here and there a dog barked. Occasionally the low murmur of conversation drifted to her on the breeze.

  It was so peaceful here.

  How ironic, considering Robert might at that very moment be engaging in a violent, bloody battle for his life.

  The door opened behind her.

  Beth didn’t turn around, hoping whoever it was would leave her alone.

  “My lady?”

  She looked up. “Oh. Hi, Marcus.”

  Closing the door, he frowned down at her. “Are you well?”

  Nodding, she looked toward the gate. “Aye.”

  The teenager shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “A storm approaches.”

  Again she nodded. Here, she could actually smell the rain coming.

  “’Tis cool. Would you not be more comfortable in the great hall?”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine where I am. Thank you, though.”

  He lingered a few minutes longer, then went back inside.

  Beth’s gaze remained fastened on the gatehouse as she willed Robert’s safe return.

  In the distance, thunder rumbled, almost fooling her into believing the men were returning on the backs of galloping steeds. Patches of clouds flashed golden with lightning before blending again into the night sky.

  Two men exited the castle and tromped down the stairs, casting her curious looks. She watched them cross the bailey to one of the towers. No doubt they worried for their friends.

  Would they blame her if Miles and Winston died?

  She would blame herself, either way.

  The door behind her opened, then closed once more.

  A cloak fell about her shoulders.

  Surprised, she glanced up. “Thank you.”

  Marcus shrugged and seated himself beside her. He was a tall, thin, yet muscular boy who might very well attain Robert’s height before he stopped growing. “I would not wish you to catch a chill, my lady.”

  Tugging the warm material more closely around her, she realized it was Robert’s.

  It must be. His scent clung to its folds.

  Burying her nose in it, she breathed in deeply.

  Please come home safely, Robert. Please.

  “After the hours you spent toiling over Sir Miles and Sir Winston, I thought you might be hungry.” Marcus held up a wineskin, a goblet, and a hollowed-out loaf of bread piled high with food. A trencher, they called it.

  She would have refused, but her stomach chose that moment to growl.

  The boy’s lips twitched. “Please, my lady. Lord Robert has been sorely concerned over your meager appetite, and will be displeased should he return to find you have not supped.”

  Sighing, she chose a piece of what she hoped was overcooked chicken and forced herself to chew and swallow it. Marcus swiftly offered her additional morsels with his knife.

  “Aren’t you going to have any?” she asked. Maybe if he was distracted with satisfying his own substantial appetite, he wouldn’t notice if she ate less. A lot less.

  If she ended up trying to make a place for herself here, she would have to have a serious talk with Robert’s cook.

  Marcus declined at first. A few prods and encouraging words later, however, he dug in with amusing enthusiasm. For every five mouthfuls he devoured, she nibbled another piece of chicken.

  Boy, she hoped it was chicken.

  A somber though companionable silence sifted down around them. After a while, Beth gave up even pretending to eat. Her stomach was still unsettled by the wounds she had plunged her fingers into earlier. She didn’t want to end up vomiting all over Robert’s squire.

  “You need not worry so, my lady,” Marcus told her softly. Having demolished the food, he reclined beside her, unwilling to leave her alone despite her assurances that she would be all right if he would rather be somewhere else. “Lord Robert will return whole.”

  She bit her lip. “How do you know? How can you be so certain he won’t return the way they did?” She nodded toward the keep behind them.

  Marcus smiled, so handsome Beth thought he must make all of the girls his age swoon. “Had you paid attention when you watched him train, you would not ask that. There are none greater, my lady, in all of England. None fiercer. I have watched him take down two or three men at once. Even his brother, the much-feared Earl of Westcott, can no longer best him. Their sparring ever ends in a draw.”

  The boy’s brown eyes glowed with pride as he spoke of his hero.

  Beth felt a smile touch her lips. “Admire him a little, do you?”

  “More than any other, my lady.”

  She nodded. “Me, too. He’s a good man.”

  “That he is, my lady.”

  “You are, too, Marcus. I hope you know that.”

  He ducked his head shyly.

  Her gaze inexorably returned to the barbican.

  How much longer?

  Lightning flashed, skeletal white fingers reaching across the sky above them and tunneling through the clouds. Thunder fleetly followed, a lion’s harsh roar of warning. Around them, the temperature dropped as a brisk wind whipped through the bailey, climbed the steps and lifted her hair from the back of her neck.

  Normally, Beth would close her eyes and let the storm vibrate through her, reveling in the wildness of it. Not tonight, though. Tonight she sat and watched and waited, her fear for Robert rendering her nearly oblivious to nature’s turmoil.

  “Marcus?”

  “Aye, my lady?”

  “You’re not one of those Neanderthals who thinks that all men are strong and all women are weak and will pounce on any feminine exhibition of fear, are you?”

  Marcus frowned and remained silent for a moment. He wasn’t quite as adept at deciphering her odd accent and words as Robert. “I know not what a Neanderthal is, my lady, but know well the kind of man you describe. I am not such a man, nay.”

  “Good.” Beth reached over and took his hand, lacing her fingers through his substantially larger ones. She thought she heard him suck in a breath as he looked down at her pale hand enclosed in his, shocked no doubt by her boldness. But she needed the contact. And the more time she spent with Marcus, the more familiar he seemed to her, odd as that might be.

  Beth needed a little familiarity just then. Needed someone she could trust as much as Robert. And that intuition that had told her before her mind would accept it that she could trust Robert now told her that she could trust Marcus.

  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “He is well, my lady. You shall see.”

  She nodded, acknowledging his words silently, and continued her vigil.

  Jagged streaks of lighting illuminated the writhing clouds with increasing frequency. Thunder raced to catch up until, at last, the two spilt the night simultaneous
ly.

  Beth didn’t move when the first big drops spattered her arm, her cheek, her hair and dappled the steps around them with damp spots.

  When Marcus tried to entice her to wait inside, warm and dry, she politely refused.

  Rain began to fall in earnest, the wind unrepentantly throwing it in their faces. Yet Marcus neither left her side nor forced her within.

  Both were soon drenched. Though Robert’s cloak didn’t succeed in keeping Beth dry—nothing short of a roof over her head could accomplish that in this deluge—it did provide a modicum of warmth, as did Marcus when he cautiously eased closer until his shoulder brushed hers.

  Her hair hung about her face in loose, sodden curls. Water beaded on her spiked eyelashes and dripped off the tip of her nose.

  And still Beth did not move.

  The storm seemed to rage for hours.

  Robert studied the abandoned campsite. Blood painted the ground and foliage where Sir Winston and Sir Miles had fallen. Flies buzzed around the bodies of five men Miles and Winston had slain before sheer numbers had defeated them.

  The marauders had left both their dead and a few belongings, fleeing into the forest.

  “How many were there?” Robert asked young Alwin, Winston’s squire.

  “Mayhap a score.”

  Twenty armed men against two knights and two squires.

  “Why did they not kill you all?”

  The boy swallowed hard. “I knew Sir Winston could not win against such numbers.”

  Behind them, Stephen grunted. “He would have fought to the death rather than accept defeat.”

  Alwin nodded. “I knew as much, my lord. So, I told Hugo to ride for help.”

  Hugo, Sir Miles’s squire nodded. “I did not wish to leave the battle, but hoped the others who searched for Lady Bethany’s brother would be nigh enough to help us.”

  Both boys bore minor wounds, their clothing marred by rips and smudges of dirt and blood.

  “When I saw Sir Winston sorely wounded,” Alwin continued, “and saw Sir Miles stumble, I turned and called into the forest behind us, Over here! Quickly, my lords! Ere they flee!”

  “And I,” Hugo said, “upon hearing him, stopped and called back, altering my voice so it would appear more than one man answered.”

  “Swift thinking,” Robert praised them. “They believed you were not alone.”

  “Aye, my lord,” the boys responded.

  “Osbert!” Robert called.

  From the trees behind the knights, a man trotted forward, four hounds at his heels.

  At Robert’s nod, the man guided the hounds into the campsite.

  Noses to the ground, tails wagging, the dogs swiftly caught the marauders’ scent and took off into the trees.

  Robert and the others launched themselves onto their destriers and raced after them.

  The dogs led them to another body, then continued on to an unconscious man Robert knew would be dead by nightfall. Both had clearly been amongst the group that had wounded Sir Miles and Sir Winston. And Robert did not doubt that they were also the blackguards who had injured Davie and slain the boy’s father and older brothers.

  Were they also the same men who had attacked Beth and her brother?

  Fury simmered beneath the surface as Robert gripped Berserker’s reins.

  Onward the hounds led them as the sky above them blossomed with the colors of sunset and daylight began to dim.

  “There!” Michael shouted.

  Robert followed his gaze.

  Up ahead, men fleeing through the forest halted at Michael’s cry.

  Robert drew his sword.

  Berserker lunged forward.

  The marauders turned to fight.

  Loosing mighty war cries, Robert and his knights descended upon the ragged band. Steel met steel, glanced off and slipped past into flesh. Cries of pain erupted all around him as Robert deflected a blow, then slid from the saddle and fought in earnest.

  Curses flew and blood spewed as bodies began to fall.

  Sellswords. Men who did not care who they slew as long as they were paid the proper coin for it. Each fought with surprising skill. And not one of them would allow himself to be captured. Nor would they reveal who directed their actions.

  “Who hired you?” Robert roared, his powerful swings driving his latest opponent backward. He needed a name. Needed to know who the cursed whoreson was who kept plaguing his lands and people. Needed to know where he could find the bastard, because Robert did not think his enemy was amongst those who fought. Needed to know if the man held Beth’s brother captive. “Is he here among you?”

  The man merely growled, refusing to reveal the source of his coins.

  Robert continued to hammer him with blows the man soon struggled to deflect. “Tell me!”

  The man tripped on a body behind him. His sword arm lost strength as he fought for balance, offering little defense against Robert’s next strike.

  Robert swore when blood spurted from his opponent’s throat. He hadn’t meant to the kill the man. But years of training and battle had rendered dealing death blows instinctual.

  Another swordsman leapt over his fallen colleague and attacked.

  Robert deflected his blow, then delivered one of his own. And another. And another.

  When the fierce battle ended, Robert and his men all remained on their feet, though some bore minor wounds.

  All of the marauders lay dead.

  He looked at his men. “Did any of you get a name?”

  Heads wagged from side to side as most of the knights winced or grimaced over having failed to deliver what Robert had asked of them.

  Breathing hard, Michael motioned to the last man he had felled. “Every one of them chose to fight to the death rather than reveal who hired them.”

  Which left Robert no closer to dispatching his enemy. “Search the bodies.”

  They did so, but found no hint of whence the sellswords came or who they followed.

  Eyeing the carnage around him, Robert loosed a string of epithets.

  Once more he had failed his people.

  He had failed Beth as well, if these men were amongst those who had attacked her and her brother.

  Grim silence accompanied Robert and his men as they rode home.

  Dismounting, Robert handed Berserker into the care of one of the stable lads and waited for Michael and Stephen to join him.

  “Mayhap your enemy was amongst those we slew,” Stephen commented.

  Michael nodded. “’Twould explain why the others would not name him. They feared he would retaliate if they defeated us.”

  Robert shook his head. “Or mayhap I am right, he was not amongst them, and ’twas simply their love of coin that kept them silent. That or the knowledge that they would die whether they spoke his name or not.”

  “’Tis possible the attacks will cease now that they are dead,” Stephen commented.

  Frustrated and weary to the bone, Robert removed his helm. “He will only hire others.”

  “Not if he lacks the funds additional mercenaries will require,” Michael said.

  Stephen nodded. “If he cannot raise enough, he will hire men of lesser experience who will be more likely to make mistakes.”

  “Not to mention less loyal,” Michael added. “They will sing his name as quickly as a raven when our swords touch their throats.”

  “Aye. Next time we will unmask him,” Stephen vowed.

  Robert appreciated their efforts to lift his spirits from the bottom of the deep pit into which they had sunk. But naught could accomplish such a feat. His failure to find and defeat his enemy could result in more lives lost. Lives for which he was responsible.

  Stephen whistled suddenly. “Now I know she is
mad, the poor girl. And it looks as though her madness has infected your squire.”

  Robert followed his gaze to the steps leading up to the keep, and frowned at the soggy pair huddled atop them.

  The two rose as one, hands linked.

  His scowl deepened.

  Marcus dared to touch Beth so familiarly?

  “If your face gets any redder, your head will burst,” Michael commented. “What ails you?”

  Jealousy, Robert thought with more than a touch of self-disgust. He was jealous of his damned squire, but would never admit it.

  His gaze fastening on the pair’s linked hands, Robert marched across the muddy bailey.

  “Go easy on her, Rob,” Stephen said behind him. “I spoke hastily when I said she was mad. ’Twas obviously concern for you that drove her to brave the elements. There are worse things a man can come home to than a beautiful, though somewhat bedraggled, woman waiting upon the steps for his safe return.”

  Robert ground to a halt. Spinning around, he gaped at the big knight, unsure which stunned him more—the idea that Beth cared about him enough to sit in the rain and watch for his return or the words his rough-about-the-edges friend had just uttered, which contained what sounded distressingly like a longing for a wife.

  Michael, too, stared at Stephen in fascination.

  Stephen shifted his weight from one leg to the other and reached up to tug on his earlobe. “What?”

  “Since when have you craved hearth and home?” Michael exclaimed. “I thought we had all agreed that no woman would have you.”

  Robert’s lips stretched into a smile as he turned back toward the steps.

  Cursing erupted behind him. Bickering followed, then the sounds of a scuffle.

  Now his spirits lightened. And they climbed even higher when Beth abruptly grew tired of waiting for him.

  Dropping Marcus’s hand, she flew down the stairs and launched herself into Robert’s arms. The force of it knocked him back a step. A sound—half-laugh, half-grunt—escaped him as he locked his arms around her waist and clutched her to him, breast to chest, hips to hips, her feet dangling a foot or so above the ground.

  Her body trembled as she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung tightly.