by Mary Wine
The man of the Church folded beneath the authority in the viscount’s voice. The bishop walked to the table and the parchment that had been placed there by the secretary. He picked up a candle and set it beneath a stick of crimson wax so that it dropped in shiny wet tears onto the parchment.
“You must not seal that document. This is foul business.”
The bishop lifted disapproving eyes to her.
“Women are best wed. They need a husband to keep them from the path of sin. It is your place in this life, and to argue against it is to abandon your immortal soul to peril. I agree that her father is too soft with her. Better to make sure that others will not attempt to stray from the narrow path of righteousness.”
He turned his hand over and pressed the face of the ring, where the crest was, into the cooling wax, setting the seal of the Church onto the official document that would forever bind Bessie to Biddeford as his wife, his chattel. Only his fellow lords of the privy council might overturn it, and they certainly would not take any action against one of their own. Bessie’s father might be a duke but it would still be a horrible battle to gain a divorce, and such action would stain her forever.
“Now kneel and receive the blessing of the Church.”
Biddeford plucked the parchment off the table instead, staring at it while his lips rose into a wide smile.
“Thank you, Bishop, you may go now.”
“But the blessing ... you have not taken your vows.”
“I don’t care. Marriage is a business, man. I care about the contract, not the stupid words of fidelity that no man ever keeps. Get you gone. Your seal is what I needed.”
Biddeford’s secretary offered the gold and the bishop took it.
“Now go, I have a bride to enjoy.”
De Canis didn’t wait for the bishop to comply. He stepped forward and grabbed the man by his robe and sent him out of the chamber doors that the grooms held open. Those same servants shut the doors the second the man was on the other side of them, the solid oak shutting out his outraged stuttering.
That sealed Justina and Bessie in a room with two men who were laughing in glee.
“Wine! To celebrate my new bride and her fortune! Be gone, Tomas, you have served your purpose.”
The grooms hurried toward the interior doors, intent on pleasing their master quickly. The secretary followed them, eager to take the freedom his master offered. From the other side of the door there came a faint pounding and the muffled sounds of the bishop still protesting. Francis de Canis laughed and sent his fist into the door. The wooden panels shook violently and the sound instantly stopped the protesting from the bishop.
“Be gone, Father! Unless you want to kiss the bride. I intend to,” De Canis exclaimed.
Bessie moaned, a pitiful sound that drove a spike through Justina’s heart. She knew what the girl was feeling, had endured it when her father turned her over to a man the rest of the world called her lord and master. Biddeford was laughing and walking toward de Canis with his hand outstretched so that they might clasp wrists and congratulate one another on bringing Bessie to her knees.
Justina refused to tolerate it. She had lived too long on her knees and refused to remain there.
The parchment was lying forgotten on the tabletop. Justina moved to it and thrust it at the fireplace beyond the table. The paper fluttered and landed on the bed of coals that was left from the fire that had been laid last night.
But it wasn’t far enough inside the fireplace.
Justina reached for a long iron poker and angled it at the parchment.
“Stop!” Biddeford howled with outrage but she didn’t turn to look at him. Justina kept her eyes on the parchment and leaned over further to try to push it into the coals with the poker.
A moment later she was slammed into the wall, her face scraping along the rough stone, but she was grateful for the pain because the stone kept her from being pushed headfirst into the fireplace. The long iron pole in her hand lodged against the place where two bricks were set against one another, making her hand and arm remain behind her because her grip was so tight on the iron.
She heard a harsh gasp and then there came a rough gurgling sound next to her ear, accompanied by the touch of warm fluid on the skin of her neck. A harsh curse filled the chamber a moment before the weight crushing her against the fireplace was lifted off her back and the iron poker pulled from her grasp at the same time. Justina turned and gasped at the horrible sight of Biddeford gasping for breath while the iron rod went through his throat. His body drew into a mass of tight muscles, his hands forming talons before he fell over with a heavy sound and lay still on the floor.
She looked down on his still form and no lament rose inside her for the fact that he had died. There was nothing except for relief that her friend would not have to suffer him. A sense of justice filled her but a soft chuckle broke through her elation.
“Well, my sweet Lady Wincott, it seems that things have changed now.”
Francis de Canis snickered low and deep, while he looked up at her from where he knelt next to Biddeford’s body. He aimed a victorious look at her.
“You are going to please me, in every way, and fear my displeasure, for the day that you earn such, I will confess your crime to all and tell them you blinded me with witchcraft to keep me silent so long.”
He meant it, every word, and the enjoyment of being able to say the words glowed in his eyes. Justina stared at his face, horror welling up to choke her, but there was no lament, for she wasn’t sorry.
“It was an accident.”
De Canis began chuckling, the sound more evil and eerie than anything she had ever heard. “But there are no witnesses, except for me and a girl who is wearing a stained chemise. Whom do you think will be believed about what happened in this chamber?”
Justina lifted her chin but she couldn’t help step back when de Canis stood up and loomed over her, his lips fixed into a smile of glee.
“If you do not agree to my terms, I am going to wrap my fingers around your throat, squeeze the life breath out of you, and tell everyone that I could not contain my rage over your crime ... ”
He stretched one hand up and toward her neck. Justina felt it before he actually touched her, her lungs drawing in deeper breaths in anticipation of being deprived.
“What is this?” De Canis asked the question in a tone that lacked all arrogance.
He suddenly stopped, a confused look taking command of his face. His hand never closed around her throat but stopped in front of her face before he looked down at his chest.
“It is your death.”
Synclair’s voice was edged with hard resolve but deadly quiet. De Canis touched the length of steel protruding from his chest with a single fingertip, a smile lifting the corners of his lips when he saw his own blood staining his skin.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Justina felt her lungs burning but she still couldn’t draw a breath. The hands that had so recently threatened to crush her throat closed into fists and then contorted until they looked more like talons. Francis de Canis looked back up at her face, his eyes still lit with life, but it began fading while she watched.
“Lady Wincott belongs to herself.”
Synclair pulled his sword free and de Canis began to turn to him, but his body faltered and crumpled to the floor before Synclair finished wiping the blade free of blood. Her knight used the carpet to clean his sword with a swift motion that spoke of practice. Synclair kept his gaze on the man he’d just run through, no remorse on his face. Once he was sure that de Canis was dead, he looked at her and she gasped, air filling her lungs finally. There was a flare of victory in his eyes, but what stole her breath was the need shimmering there. She felt it pierce her heart because it was a reflection of what she felt for him.
“It is a death he so richly deserved.” Synclair’s voice was not as calm or controlled as his expression. There was tightly contained rage in his tone and he sent a look of disgust toward the c
rumpled form of Francis de Canis. “This world is well rid of his kind of filth.”
“It was ... too ... kind.”
Bessie spoke from where she sat on the floor. She had drawn her knees up to her chest and had her arms wrapped around them while she watched the blood seeping out of de Canis’s chest. Her attention was focused on the dark puddle while her lips were pressed into a hard line. Justina understood that look. It was the same one she had given to her husband once fate had finally been kind enough to free her from his grasp. But there was a torment in the freedom, one that came from her own conscience as she questioned whether or not she was as large a monster for being glad that someone was dead. Bessie was struggling with that same thing while Justina watched.
“Yes, it was too kind.” Synclair muttered the words and Justina looked up to discover his eyes on her. “You said the same once.” There was an understanding in his eyes that sent tears into hers.
No one had ever understood ...
A soft whimper escaped her lips before she flung herself into his arms. Her knight didn’t disappoint her. Synclair wrapped her tightly against him, threatening to crush the breath from her with the strength of his arms.
Justina didn’t struggle. She pressed her face against his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin while she trembled in his arms.
“You came.”
“Of course I did.” He angled his head back so that he might see her expression. “I cannot live without you, Justina, that is what my love for you means to me. I will follow you anywhere and without fail, no matter the obstacles that need to be moved in order for me to keep that vow.”
“But the King’s men ...”
He snorted and set her down, so that he might slide his sword back into its sheath.
“They are young lads who have never been beyond the palace walls. They know little of how to deal with a seasoned knight, much less how to contain me. It would not surprise me to ride back to my house now and find them all still drinking at my table while thinking that I am truly in my bed.” He snorted. “As if I would retire so early without you there to entice me toward those sheets.”
She scoffed at his jest but couldn’t quite become cross with him. She was still quivering with joy, her eyes blinking rapidly while her mind tried to make sure that he was not an illusion conjured up from her desperation. “I’m grateful for that.”
Something crashed to the floor, making a horribly loud sound inside the chamber. Synclair jerked around to see the grooms returning. A silver tray lay on the carpet, rich red wine spilling out of a decanter to mix with the blood puddle on the floor. She had never seen so much blood in one place; it flowed from the two bodies and covered the floor while soaking into the Persian carpet beneath the table.
They looked to one another, neither of them certain what to do. A heavy fist pounded on the outer doors, shaking them.
“Open these doors for the Duke of Portshire!”
“Father!” Bessie fought her way to her feet but she shook, looking too frail to remain standing. The grooms all stepped back, guilt turning their faces dark. They looked at Bessie and the harm that they had known was going on. Justina watched as they stepped back even farther into the shadows of the chamber.
Synclair crossed over the center of the room where the bodies lay. There was an ease about the way he walked among the newly dead that sent a shiver down her back, but once again Justina discovered no lament in her for that fact. She was glad that he was not some paper knight such as Biddeford had been, a man who had proudly displayed his title but had never seen true battle nor bled during the earning of his spurs. Biddeford had been knighted because his family expected it and the King wanted something from those powerful relations. He had fallen to a true knight.
Synclair opened the door, stopping the pounding, but he stood in the doorway, blocking the view of the chamber with his body.
“You will not care for what you discover here, my Lord Portshire.”
The Duke of Portshire was not hiding behind his men. The man stood in front of them, his doublet not even fully buttoned.
“Stand aside, Harrow. I have found you an agreeable fellow but I will see my daughter. That bastard of a bishop claims he married my Bessie to the Viscount Biddeford.”
There was no mistaking the fact that the duke was furious to hear such news. His tone was sharp enough to cut through leather.
“You may want to choose who accompanies you, my Lord. She is not dressed properly.”
There was a low growl from the duke but he made a slashing motion with his hand and several of his party turned around instantly. They continued to guard his back while only his immediate personal guards remained at his side. Synclair stepped out of his path and Justina watched the duke take in the scene inside the chamber. He didn’t show his emotions on his face but his eyes filled with the flames of rage.
“Close the door.” His voice snapped like a whip and the grooms jumped in the shadows. The duke’s men had the door shut before the cowering servants moved. Bessie’s hand twisted around Justina’s while her father looked over the mess that she was. The duke knelt down to stare at both Biddeford and de Canis.
The duke suddenly looked up at Synclair. “You killed de Canis?”
“I did. He was reaching for Lady Wincott’s neck.”
“I wish I had killed Biddeford, but he impaled himself on the poker Justina was trying to use to burn the marriage agreement the bishop sealed.”
The duke snapped his fingers and one of his men picked up the parchment where it was lying on the floor in front of the fire. The duke shook the ash off it and read it quickly. Justina watched his face tighten even further. He looked at his daughter once again.
“Lady Wincott, I find myself in your debt.”
“But ... this is murder ...” One of the grooms finally found the courage to speak up. The duke snapped his head about to look at the man.
“Murder? It is not murder when the dead are villains! Now make yourself of use and fetch my daughter a dressing robe. According to this parchment, she is your mistress and heir to your lord’s estate since the man is dead.”
“I want nothing of his touching me.”
The duke made a low sound beneath his breath as the servants hesitated. “Find something among Lady Wincott’s belongings!”
There was a scuffle as the grooms all tried to leave the chamber at the same time. They ran into one another, pressing their comrades against the doorframe in their hurry. Justina could hear them running across the stone floor toward her chambers, the doors slamming open because of how fast they went. It didn’t take long for a dressing gown to be returned, but she jerked it out of the groom’s hands and eased it up Bessie’s arms herself.
“Now fetch her some wine.”
“No!”
Bessie snarled out the single word and her father’s face darkened. He reached out and grabbed a handful of the doublet of the groom closest to him. The man’s feet skidded against the floor as the duke lifted him up by one hand.
“Fetch my daughter some wine, man, and make very sure that it is fit for the King himself or answer to me.”
The duke released the groom and the man stumbled while attempting to gain his footing.
“I couldn’t stop my lord from feeding the girl what he did ... none of us could ... we’re servants ...”
“Nonsense! You could have run to my chambers instead of allowing me to hear of this from a bishop’s lips! One of you worthless creatures should have done something to prevent this evil from being done, and by God’s grace I will not listen to your pitiful excuses! You are a man, not an animal that cannot reason and see foul play for what it is!”
“But we didn’t kneel for the blessing, Father. I am not wed.”
Bessie sounded desperate but at least her voice was steady instead of slurred. Her gaze was becoming sharp as the last of the toxins released her.
“Your friend was right to attempt to burn this parchment, Bessie. The lack of a
blessing is irrelevant now that the bishop is complaining about the matter to any who will listen.” Another snort came from the duke. “With winter’s chill around the palace, there are many, many interested in hearing the tale. You are wed now and it appears a widow. You need the protection of marriage since the entire court will know of this business before sunset.” The duke turned to Justina.
“I discover myself in your debt as well, Lady Wincott, but I am envious, too, for I would have enjoyed killing your guardian myself.”
“It was not intentional. He tried to stop me and impaled himself.” Justina looked down to where blood was staining her bodice. It had trickled over her shoulder in a thin stream. “I do not lament it.”
The duke snorted. “Well, we shall keep this wedding parchment and take what we can from the villain. It will give me great delight to set my lawyers upon his estate.”
“I do not want to be called Lady Biddeford.”
The duke turned a hard look upon his daughter. “It is far less of a burden than what you have already been forced to bear. Would that I might have spared you this, Bessie, but it is time to discover if you are strong enough to rise up from the fire or die because of the sting of its burn.”
Bessie made a sound beneath her breath that was very much like a snarl. “I’d have killed him myself the moment my wits cleared. That foul potion robbed me of my strength and my mind, but I have it back now.”
The duke offered his daughter a short nod. Justina made sure that Bessie didn’t find any pity on her face either. That was not what the girl needed. Justina recalled that all too well. Bessie would have to be strong if she wanted to rise above the night that had passed.
“I’ll be fine, better than fine, in a few more hours.”
Justina met her friend’s eyes and witnessed the turmoil in them. “I believe that you shall, Bessie. You are no weak-kneed girl after all.”
There was a commotion outside the doors, the large wooden panels shaking as men were jostled up against them. The duke’s men instantly turned to defend their lord. Justina gasped as Synclair sent her back across the chamber with one hard jerk before he planted himself in front of her with his sword in hand. Bessie stumbled along beside her because Justina was still holding her hand. Both women found themselves pressed against the wall as the doors gave way.