Sword of Forgiveness (Winds of Change Book 1)

by Debbie Lynne Costello

  “I thank you for this.” Royce lifted his gaze to the woman in front of him and his memory flooded back. “Is your boy well?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Ye remember? Aye, he is fine, milord.”

  “Where is your husband?”

  “He died, milord. ’Tis only me son and meself.”

  “I see.” Royce summoned Jarren to the front of the hall.

  “See this woman is paid more than a fair price for the knife.”

  Royce studied the knife he held in his hands as the woman walked away. The intricate detail, the jewels imbedded in the handle—there was no mistaking it. It was Edmond's. The day Edmond had taken the knife was clear. Royce could still hear the cry for mercy. The look of horror on the man’s face as Edmond ran him through with his sword, and the metallic smell of his blood that flowed freely, remained a vivid memory.

  He curled his hand around the hilt of the weapon. Edmond wanted him dead. Aye, he knew this day would come. And as fate would have it, the time came when he had finally found happiness with Brithwin.

  Brithwin…he’d not seen Brithwin all day. He’d seen her maid, but not a glimpse of his wife. Surely, she would not leave the castle grounds without his knowledge. His eyes shot around the hall in search of her. By the rood! If she had, her very life could be in danger.

  Chapter 19

  Guy lay sprawled before Brithwin, clutching the wound at his chest. His lifeless eyes stared at the thatched roof. Blood had seeped from beneath his body and pooled around him, soaking into the dirt floor. Brithwin fell across the man she had grown to care for, feeling the cold from his body that had penetrated his thin cotton shirt. She swallowed a sob, glancing up at Daffydd. He held a finger to his lips as he peered around the room. Silently drawing his sword from its sheath, he stepped outside. Twigs cracked as he walked around the small cottage. Thor remained in the doorway, baring his teeth in a low, menacing growl, the hair on his neck standing in attention.

  Brithwin swallowed. “We are too late, Thor,” she whispered.

  She forced herself up and walked to where Murielle lay face down on the floor in her own blood. Falling again to her knees, she rolled the supple body over. The warmth of Murielle’s blood soaked Brithwin’s hand, and she whimpered with hope.

  Without thought, Brithwin tore a strip of fabric from her gown and pressed it against the wound in Murielle’s abdomen. The blood pumped into the cloth. Brithwin held her friend, increasing the pressure against the wound and fighting the tremors racking her own body.

  Tears rolled down her face. She swiped them with her shoulder. “Please do not die. I need you.”

  A faint moan came from Murielle’s throat. Her eyelids fluttered.

  “No, Murielle, wake up. Please come back to me! Don’t die, do you hear me?”

  Daffydd returned, appearing just inside the doorway. “Is there something I can get for you, milady?”

  Brithwin wrenched her head around. “She is still alive. We must get her back to Hawkwood where I can care for her.”

  Murielle raised her hand and touched Brithwin’s cheek. “You need not bother,” she murmured. “You know as well as I that I do not have much time.” Her voice came out a near whisper.

  Tears welled and Brithwin fought them. The blood continued to ooze despite the pressure. “I can save you if we bring you back to the castle. I have herbs. They will help.”

  Murielle’s voice weakened. Brithwin leaned down close to Murielle’s lips. “No one can save me, save the Lord, and I think He has determined it is time for me to go home.”

  Brithwin drew in a shaky breath and let it out. “Nay, I will not let you go.”

  “You have no say, my dear. Promise me you will find the boy.” Murielle’s voice faded in and out. “He ran when they came. I am thankful he got away.”

  Brithwin brought Murielle’s hand to her cheek. “I will find him.”

  “I know it is much to ask of you, milady, but I need you to find someone who will look after him and be good to him.”

  “I will.”

  Daffydd cleared his voice. “Milady, I am sorry, but may I ask her a few questions?”

  Murielle’s gaze shifted to Daffydd.

  “Do you know who did this?”

  Murielle’s face contorted with pain at the slight shake of her head, and she gasped. “Thieves. They took milady’s knife.” She turned her attention back to Brithwin with sorrowful eyes.

  Brithwin’s voice cracked. “Do not concern yourself with me.”

  Daffydd moved closer. “Can you tell me anything unusual about any of them? Did they say anything that might help us? Where they were going? What about their clothes, their horses?”

  Murielle coughed and blood trickled from her mouth. “I—I didn’t see their horses.”

  “Do you remember anything?” Daffydd’s voice pleaded.

  Again, a slight shake of her head.

  Daffydd turned to go back outside when Murielle garnered her strength and called out in weak voice, “Wait.”

  Fearful he didn’t hear her, Brithwin called to him, “Daffydd.”

  He came and squatted by her side. “You remember something?”

  “The leader—a scar.”

  “A scar?” Something between dismay and anger sounded in Daffydd’s voice.

  “His face.” She gulped in air. “And neck.”

  “Thank you. We will find them.”

  Murielle closed her eyes and drifted into unconsciousness. They lifted her onto the same pallet Guy had spent so much time on a sennight ago.

  Brithwin’s body continued to tremble. She drew in a ragged breath. “I have already failed to keep them safe. I should never have brought them here. ’Tis my fault this has happened.” Brithwin spun around, facing toward the door. “The boy! You need to search for Malcolm. He must be scared near unto death. It is hard to say how far he has gone in all this time.”

  Daffydd gently squeezed her arm. “I have found the boy.”

  His sympathetic gaze caused Brithwin’s breath to hitch. She staggered back. Tears filled her eyes. Her knees buckled beneath her, his grip on her arm the only thing holding her up. “Nay. I promised. I promised.”

  “I am sorry, milady.”

  Bile rose in Brithwin’s throat and she tried to swallow. She jumped to her feet and ran out the door, emptying her stomach onto the ground. She stumbled back in and sank to the floor beside Murielle, robbed of her strength.

  Daffydd left the cottage with a blanket and returned with a blanket-covered body. He gently laid the man-boy beside his grandfather. Raising the cloth, he covered Guy’s body, too.

  “Milady we must go. ’Tis not safe for you.”

  “Please. Just a few minutes.” She caressed Murielle’s wrinkled cheeks.

  “I cannot allow you much time.”

  Murielle’s breathing had grown shallow. Brithwin remained beside her until she took her last breath. Leaning forward, Brithwin kissed her and rose to her feet. An ache she could not explain gnawed at her heart. She lifted burning eyes to Daffydd. “’Tis time.”

  They left the cottage, and three precious people, behind. Brithwin clenched her teeth and fisted her hands. With each step she took, her muscles grew tauter. Her grief and her anger snarled together. How could a loving God allow this to happen? An innocent family dead. Did He not care?

  Thor followed close at her heels. Daffydd’s glance shifted from side to side as they trudged through brush and around trees, avoiding the main trail. They continued in silence, which was good, for she felt not like speaking, so black was her mood.

  Daffydd stopped. His gaze swung around to encompass the forest. Brithwin stilled, narrowing her eyes and searching for what he sought. “What—”

  His strong hand clamped over her mouth and he whispered in her ear. “Horses.”

  He pushed her to the ground and drew his sword before hunching beside her. Brithwin sucked in a breath and held it as the sound of pounding hooves drew nearer. Were these her friends’
murderers?

  Daffydd’s breath blew over her face, its warmth mingling with the scent of cool, moist earth. “Where is Thor?”

  Brithwin’s eyes widened and she shook her head. Heaven save them. Would Thor lead these men straight to them?

  The outline of horses became visible. Fighting the urge to flee, she gripped the small branches of the bush before her, its thorny ends biting into her hands. Daffydd’s arm remained securely around her shoulders as if to impart courage and protection. The mounted men advanced and began passing by no farther than the length of two jousting sticks. Her heart thundered in her chest. Daffydd’s arm tightened. She peeked through the bush. One of the men had broken away from the group and approached.

  Thor’s bark sounded in the distance. A cry went up and the men spurred their horses to a gallop. Brithwin let out a sigh when again Daffydd’s fingers dug into her arm. She shifted her gaze to see the man who had broken away slide from his horse. Muttering, he walked to a tree to relieve himself, and Brithwin dropped her head. When he turned around to mount his horse, he would see them.

  Brithwin squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and prayed. Lord, please do not let him see us. She swallowed. After what she had thought, how dare she pray? Why would God answer?

  As if the Lord sought to show His forgiveness, the horse turned and cantered in the opposite direction. The brigand spun around, eyes locked on his retreating horse.

  He dashed after his mount, bellowing as he went. The more he roared the faster the horse ran. God surely proved He was in control. As the man faded into the woods, Daffydd let his arm drop from her shoulder.

  He grasped her hand and plucked her to her feet. “Come, we must hurry. When they see someone has been at the cottage, they will return.”

  †††

  Laughter and friendly banter accompanied the evening meal, well under way, but Royce could not shrug off the mantle of restlessness that weighed on him. A thin haze of smoke hung about the room, and bodies in bad need of washing saturated the stagnant air and tainted the smell of fresh-cooked food. Royce wished more men would pick up the habit of bathing. It wasn’t so bad once one became accustomed to it. Jarren sat beside him, devouring a chunk of boar haunch and regaling the knights with the tale of the hunt. Grunting in acknowledgment to Jarren’s rambling, Royce took another bite and glanced once more toward the door.

  Jarren leaned toward Royce. “Watching the door will not bring her in any sooner.”

  With his hand hovering to pick up his cup, Royce snapped his head toward Jarren. “Why think you I wait on her?”

  Jarren’s eyes opened wide and the corner of his mouth quivered upward. “Perhaps the fact you have glanced at the entrance a dozen times since we sat down.”

  Royce took a swallow of his drink and slammed the goblet down. “So, what now. You keep track of how often I lift my head?”

  Jarren sopped the gravy with a piece of bread and stuffed it in his mouth before answering. “No, but it is distracting, for it draws my gaze and interferes with me enjoying my food.”

  “She is late.” Royce spoke the words more to himself.

  “Did you not send her maid to find her? Hawkwood is no small castle.”

  “Aye, but if she were here someone would have seen her. I will wait no longer. My gut tells me she is in danger.” He pushed himself from the table. “Gather the men. We go and search for her.”

  Jarren shoved his trencher away and leaned back. “Did you not say Daffydd was to watch her?”

  Royce looked at his friend with annoyance. “Aye, and he is not here either. If she were within the castle walls, he would be eating with us.”

  Royce moved toward the exit with haste as Jarren gathered the men. Minutes later, they rode out of the gates.

  Jarren brought his mount beside Royce’s. “Where do we start? The village?”

  Royce wrapped the reins around his hand. “Nay. We go to the old couple in the woods.”

  “Milady would not go there without telling you.”

  Turning in his saddle, Royce raised his eyebrows and fixed his gaze on Jarren. “Surely you jest?”

  Jarren clamped his mouth shut, riding on in silence. They veered to the left and followed the path that led to the old crofter’s cottage. Not far down the trail, Royce caught sight of riders. He spurred Shadowmere into a run. The oncoming riders sent their horses off the trail and into the heavy woods. His men’s horses pounded the ground behind him. As he reached the area where the riders had turned off the trail, Royce slowed his horse and eased his way into the woods. There had been a dozen or more riders, but to his relief none rode double. Brithwin was not among them, but they were on his land, running from him, which meant they planned mischief. He would see they left, if nothing else.

  The pursuit dragged on, twisting and turning. Royce ducked as he approached a low branch. The brigands gained ground and looked to know the lay of the land better than he. The sun lowered in the sky.

  Pulling on the reins, he turned to Jarren as his horse stopped. “Let them go. We lose light and I must find Brithwin.”

  They circled around and headed toward the cottage. Dusk was nigh upon them when two figures slid behind a group of yew bushes. He nudged his horse forward cautiously. His heart thundered in his chest. Please let this be Brithwin.

  Royce reined in his mount several feet back. “Show yourselves.”

  A gasp came from the brush then a man stepped out. “Lord Rosen Craig, is that you?”

  “Aye, it is me. Do you have milady?”

  Brithwin emerged beside Daffydd. “I am here.”

  Her voice was thick. He longed to see her face. He dismounted, and his long stride ate up the ground between them. Every step that drew him closer revealed more of the distress her posture conveyed. Her haggard face and despondent eyes coming into view whispered something was amiss. Beside her stood an equally downcast Daffydd. Even the haze of dusk could not hide her lowered head tilted to one side and the slump of her shoulders. Royce drew her to him, enfolding her in his arms.

  Her bottom lip quivered against his chest. He scooped her up and carried her to his horse, mounting behind her. Jarren leaned down, offered his hand to Daffydd, and pulled him up behind him.

  Daffydd cleared his throat. “When we return, we must speak.”

  “The old couple?” Royce asked. Daffydd met his gaze, and from the turmoil reflected there, Royce knew the news would not be good. He nodded his head and nudged Shadowmere toward Hawkwood.

  When they arrived in the bailey, Royce slid from his horse and lifted Brithwin into his arms. She leaned her head against his chest as he made his way to the manor and up the steps. Jarren ran ahead and pulled the door. Torches hanging from rings on the walls lit up the entrance. He lowered his eyes and choked as he glimpsed her bloodstained gown. His gaze shot to her face. The blank stare she gave him sent chills through his body.

  Daffydd came up behind him. “The blood is not hers.”

  Royce gave a quick nod. “Have a bath brought to our chamber, and send Elspeth with it. I will speak to you in my solar after Elspeth arrives.”

  Royce took to the steps with Brithwin still in his arms. With great care, he lowered her into a chair and squatted before her. “Can you tell me what happened today?”

  Her vacant eyes looked past him, causing a tremor of alarm to lace through him. This was not the fire-spitting Brithwin he knew. Never had he seen her so meek. Whatever she had experienced had surely been vile. She belonged to him—her safety was his responsibility, and he had failed her.

  He scooped her up, dropped himself in the chair, and nestled her on his lap. With arms wrapped around her, he gently kissed her forehead and pulled her tightly to his chest. If he could remove this suffering from her, he would gladly take it upon himself. Never again would he allow someone to hurt her like this. He would protect her at any cost, even to his own death. This oath he made.

  †††

  A rap on the door brought Royce’s head up, a
nd he bid Elspeth and the servants enter with Brithwin’s bathwater. Leaning forward, he tenderly brushed his lips over hers then stood and sat her in the chair. He caressed her cheek with his finger. “I must go speak with Daffydd. Elspeth will take care of you. If you want me, send a servant, and I will come.”

  Royce stepped through the door and into his solar to see Daffydd looking out the window. He strode across the room.

  Daffydd tore his gaze from outside. “How is she?”

  “She is distressed.” Royce advanced on Daffydd, and grasped the man’s collar. “What happened? I trusted you to protect her!” He shoved him back and plunged both hands through his hair. He had barely finished the motion when he thrust his fist into the wall, leaving an indentation of his passion in the soft wood. Pain shot up his arm, bringing coherence back to his thoughts.

  Daffydd’s eyes rounded. “She did not tell you?”

  “I couldn’t get any words from her. I have never seen her so distraught. Was she—attacked?” He could not bring himself to ask the question that seared his heart.

  “Nothing like that, Royce.”

  Royce let out a whoosh of air and with it some of the anger. “Sit and tell me what has taken place.”

  Daffydd gave an account of the events from the time he had stepped outside Hawkwood’s bailey and met Brithwin. He told him in detail what they walked into and her reaction from the moment they had entered the cottage.

  Royce clenched his teeth. Brithwin was too innocent to witness this gruesome scene. He had indeed failed her.

  The men he had chased were very well the same who had murdered her friends—and he had given up the pursuit. His gut twisted. He had let them slip through his fingers. He should have pressed onward and apprehended them.

  Daffydd’s silence drew his attention. Royce’s eyes narrowed as he stared back.

  “There is one more thing.” Daffydd shifted in his chair. “Before Murielle died, she described one of her attackers. ’Twas Edmond.”

  Chapter 20

  Royce bolted out of his chair. “Edmond!” He had been within his grasp. If he’d only known, he would have finished the chase. Ended it then and there.