The Redeeming: Book Three (Age of Faith)

by Tamara Leigh

  She shook her head. To trust first would mean lowering her defenses. If she did that, she would fall in love with Christian as she had come far too close to doing already, and the thought of loving another man who did not love her was unbearable.

  The castle steadily gained in size, and still Christian let her stay out ahead, for which she was grateful when a tear slid down her face. She let it go, knowing that, by ride’s end, no trace would remain.

  Nearing the castle, she straightened in the saddle, but before she slowed her palfrey, a cry sounded from the far end of the dirt road where it wound out of the wood. A wagon careened forward. It was too distant to be certain, but the one driving the horse appeared to be a woman, and a larger figure was slumped across her lap.

  Despite the fear that shot through Gaenor, she turned her palfrey away from the castle and urged it to greater speed.

  “Gaenor, nay!” It was Christian. Or was it Abel? Both? Regardless, they were not far behind, though far enough that they were unable to overtake her before she reached the wagon.

  The woman dragged on the reins, stopping the wagon so abruptly the man rolled off her lap and landed at her feet. “Lord have mercy!” She dropped to her knees beside him. “Look what they done to him!”

  He pressed a bloodied hand to his ear, groaned, and rocked side to side.

  “Cut it off, they did!”

  Registering a frighteningly rank smell, Gaenor gripped the pommel to dismount.

  A hand closed on her arm. “Stay astride,” Christian growled.

  She jerked her head around. Where there had been gold flecks in his eyes before, there were none now. Though she had seen him angry, this was not that.

  “Aye,” she breathed.

  He released her and swung out of the saddle.

  Abel had already dismounted and threw her a look nearly equal to Christian’s as he strode to the wagon around which the rest of the escort had gathered.

  “It was the brigands, Margery?” Christian asked as he came alongside the woman.

  Plump chest rising and falling rapidly, she said, “Aye, my lord. And Sir Robert.” Chin dimpling with the effort to control her emotions, she bobbed her head. “’Twas he who told them to cut off Will’s ear—and it weren’t as if he refused ‘em or nothin’ like.”

  “Refused them what?”

  She jerked her chin over her shoulder. “That ain’t grain to be milled, my lord. ‘Tis a message from your brother. ‘Deliver ‘em to the little monk and his dirty Wulfrith bride,’ he did say.”

  Gaenor looked to the rear of the wagon, her fear trebling when her gaze settled on the lumps beneath a stained blanket. The stains…the stench…the blood… Whose?

  “Ranulf!” Christian called. “Return my wife to the donjon.”

  As the man-at-arms came for her, Gaenor nudged her palfrey forward and leaned down. Once more, her husband and brother objected, but she whipped off the blanket. And gagged.

  The bodies were savaged in ways she could never have imagined. All that remained intact were faces that did not belong to Garr or Everard. But they were men she knew.

  When Ranulf took the reins from her and turned her palfrey, Gaenor was too cold to protest—as if caught out in a snow in naught but her chemise.

  Behind, her brother cursed and Christian asked, “You know them?”

  Teeth beginning to chatter, Gaenor peered over her shoulder.

  Abel stood at the rear of the wagon, handsome face contorted into something fearfully ugly. “They are from Stern, the same who delivered my sister’s chest on the day past ere continuing on to Wulfen.”

  Christian stepped alongside him, and Gaenor ached that he and her brother appeared so well-matched in anger, something that might see them both dead. “You think they hold Sir Mark?”

  The knight who had delivered her mother’s missive…

  “I wager they do, and that he is alive.” Abel turned to Christian. “Accept it now if you have not, Baron Lavonne—whether it is by my sword or another’s, your brother is dead.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “The cold will not leave me be.”

  Christian had expected to find her abed, not sitting before the brazier that had little to recommend it for warmth at this hour of the night.

  He turned from the bed he had longed for after a day spent tracking the brigands and strode to the chair. When he came around it, the faint glow of the dying fire revealed Gaenor huddled there, legs drawn to her chest, blankets up to her ears. For all her exceptional height, she looked painfully slight.

  “You should be abed.”

  Her gaze drifted from the brazier at his back, up his chest, to his eyes. “They are still out there.”

  He knew his failure to bring Robert to ground showed in his face, but he said, “They are,” though twice he and his men had come maddeningly close thanks to Abel’s tracking skills. Considering the number of men Christian had taken with him, one thing was certain—Robert and those who had attacked Margery and her husband had not had Aldous with them, for speed had been their ally. Unfortunately, wherever their camp was located, it was moved often.

  “I knew the men they tore apart,” Gaenor said so low he nearly missed her words.

  Forgetting how weary he was, Christian sank to his haunches before her. “Gaenor—”

  “I wanted to wed one of them when I was a girl.” She stared past him. “He was handsome and kind and strong. What they did to him…” Her breath caught and eyes glittered. “A wild animal might do that, not a human.” Her gaze shot to Christian’s and, past chattering teeth, she said, “I do not understand.”

  Her brothers had shielded her well from the reasons so many vied to have their sons train at Wulfen.

  Christian reached forward and slid the backs of his fingers down her moist cheek. “I have yet to understand it myself. ‘Tis ungodly, but it is what some men do.”

  “Where is God when they do it?”

  Christian knew what his abbot would have said, but he could not believe God was so wrathful to punish people for their unconfessed sins that he sent such evil into their midst, and he would not have her believe it either. “I think He must be there with the sufferers, longing to help, but with a greater purpose than we can know.”

  She shuddered. “Such pretty words for such an ugly thing.”

  “I am sorry, but they are all I have.” He straightened. “And now, I want you to come to bed.”

  “I would stay here.”

  “You will not.” He leaned down, slid his hands beneath her blanketed form, and lifted her into his arms.

  When he laid her on the bed, he was not surprised to find the mattress bare of bedclothes. He reached to peel the layers from her, but she clutched at them and whispered, “I am so cold.”

  “Then I shall warm you.” Though he did not trust himself and knew temptation was a touch away, he lay down beside her and gathered her to him.

  So rigid was she that Christian thought holding her was probably not much different from embracing a fence post, but slowly she began to ease, her teeth ceased their chattering and her body its shuddering, and the fence post became womanly curves.

  Feeling the warmth of her sigh against his neck as she tucked her head beneath his chin, he said into her hair, “Better?”

  She was slow to respond, and when she did, it was simply, “Some.”

  Enough. Fatigue dragged at Christian, and he was grateful for its distraction that meant he would be engaging in no more battles this night. He closed his eyes, pushed past images of his brother’s victims, and leaned into the rest he so badly needed.

  “What have you gained in wedding me?”

  He lifted his lids. “You need sleep, Gaenor, as do I.”

  “What have you gained?”

  He was too tired for this. And too aware of her.

  She tilted her head back. Though he could barely make out her features, he longed for the smile he knew was not there. “You have but traded enemies, Christian, the
Wulfriths for your brother and his brigands. Your people are no safer. Thus, you have gained naught.”

  This was not the time, and especially not the place, to discuss it, and yet Christian felt drawn into this moment that was rife with her grieving. “I have gained you,” he said gruffly.

  A huff of disbelief swept his jaw. “By the king’s decree.”

  He slid a hand up her shoulder and cupped her cheek that his body had warmed. “That day at the stream…if not for the attack on Broehne, I would have met you again. Indeed, methinks I would have stolen you away that I might reveal and explain my deception.”

  Her breath on his face ceased, and it was some moments before she spoke. “I fear I would have gone with you.”

  Surely it would have been better for them had she, but Robert’s attack had stolen the opportunity and she had fled with Durand. The thought of the knight tempted Christian to distance himself from her, but she tempted him in another way by turning her mouth into his hand and pressing her lips to his palm.

  “I am glad you see me,” she whispered.

  He squeezed his eyes closed, but the temptation was too great. “Even in the dark, Gaenor,” he rasped. Sending the voices in his head into the abyss of the morrow, he swept her onto her back, lowered his head, and kissed her. And kissed her again.

  She could not recall ever being so wonderfully warm, though when she realized the cause of it, worry crept in.

  But he was still here. Where she lay on her side, she could feel the heat of his body, and since he had not waited on her menses, surely that meant she had gained his trust. Or had she? She bit her lip. The day would tell.

  Regardless, her hope had increased ten-fold, for last eve it was her name on Christian’s lips. Hers and no other’s. And even across the dim of night she had felt his eyes upon her. It had been lovely, not at all like—

  Hearing her husband draw a deep breath, she opened her eyes to the bare light of dawn and found he did not lie beside her but sat on the mattress edge with his back to her, his face turned up as if he consulted heaven.

  She touched his back and felt his muscles tense. “Christian?”

  “What happened should not have, Gaenor.”

  She dropped her hand from him. “You think I seduced you?”

  A long moment passed before he looked over his shoulder. “I do not. But that does not make it less of a mistake. Now…”

  Aye, now. Dragging the sheet up over her shoulders, she turned onto her back and set her gaze to the ceiling. “Now if my menses do not come, only I will know for certain that my child is also yours.”

  He did not deny it, but said, “I vow, ‘tis not you I am angry with.” He turned and leaned over her. “I should have stopped.”

  The only way to avoid looking upon him in his state of undress was to close her eyes, but she did not.

  “The answer was an easy one,” he growled. “We had but to wait.”

  Her resentment raised its ugly head. “Aye, ‘twould have been far easier to wait than to believe me!”

  His lids narrowed and jaw jutted. “How can I when you—?” He snapped his chin around and stilled.

  What was he looking at? Something on the bedside table? There was only a cup and her psalter there. Her chest against the wall?

  She raised herself onto her elbows. “When I what?”

  He looked back at her and, despite the dim, she caught his startle at finding her face so near his. He lowered his gaze to her mouth, then her neck, lingered over her collarbone from which the sheet had slipped, and abruptly sat back. “We can but pray your menses come. And soon.”

  Something turned in Gaenor, something she recognized as passed to her by her mother who had held her head high through all manner of adversity, especially that which had been found in marriage. True, it would have been better had last eve not happened, for she would not have their child suffer the lie of illegitimacy, but neither could she pray for her monthly flux.

  She lowered to the pillow and turned onto her side to face her husband. “I will not pray that, Christian, lest there is a child growing in me. Our child.”

  He stared at her.

  “I will pray that, should our babe be born come spring, you believe me as you do not now.”

  He stood from the bed, and she closed her eyes at the sight of him. “We ride again today,” he said, his footfalls revealing his clothes chest was his destination.

  Gaenor was not surprised that he left her words unanswered, but still it made her ache.

  “We may be gone many days,” Christian said amid the rustle of the clothes he donned. “God willing, when I return, all this will be at an end.”

  Her hurt self wanting to deny him a response as he denied her, she reached for the blanket around her calves, pulled it over her to recapture the warmth she had felt in his arms, and closed her eyes.

  You are stronger than this, Gaenor. You have to be.

  She opened her eyes, sat up, and ventured a look at the foot of the bed. Christian was clothed, his tunic cut of a dark material that appeared to be nearer homespun than fine linen.

  Holding the blanket to her chest, she said, “Garr will send men to aid you.” There was no question of it now that Wulfrith men had been murdered and a knight might soon be.

  He dropped the lid on the chest. “I do not doubt he will.” If he resented it, his voice did not tell.

  “And the king?”

  “Henry has promised men, but methinks they will not appear.”

  “Why?”

  He glanced at her. “Though I do not doubt the king is eager to see my brother’s blood spilled, Robert is but a fly on Henry’s backside when there are matters far more pressing.” He turned a belt around his waist and bent his head to fasten it. “Then there is the issue of my defiance.”

  “You defied the king?” Garr had done so in wedding Annyn. How had Christian?

  “When my men pulled your injured sister out of the ravine and brought her to Broehne, I did not send word to Henry as was his due.”

  “Why?”

  He came around the side of the bed, retrieved the boots abandoned among the rushes on the night past, and dragged them on. When he straightened, he met her gaze.

  “Though the proof was great that Beatrix had murdered one of my men, I knew that, as inclined as I was to believe it, others would as well. I wanted justice for the dead man, but it was certain that if I had any part in that justice, the conflict between our two families would turn to war. And if still Henry forced a union, there could be no hope for you and me.”

  Was there hope?

  “Thus, I determined none would know Beatrix yet lived until I decided the best course.”

  “What course did you decide?”

  “I did not, for as she recovered, I began to doubt her guilt.” He turned up a hand. “Then she escaped.”

  She blinked. “Did you allow it?”

  His eyebrows rose. “I can only say I did not prevent it.” He turned away. “Take your ease another hour, then I will send my squire to pack for the ride.”

  Gaenor had not realized he was missing the customary attendant. He had to have one, but the young man, whoever he was, had yet to come to her notice. But then, her husband was gone from Broehne more than he was present. And he was going again.

  “Christian?”

  At the door, he looked over his shoulder.

  Why had she called to him? To beseech him to stay, to not allow Robert to keep him from returning, to believe her? All that and more, but it was best said in the fewest words. “I shall also pray that you see me again.”

  His brow gathered, and his lips parted as if to naysay her, but realization was not far behind. Without further word, he opened the door and did not look back.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “It could be a trap.”

  Abel nodded. “That is why I go alone.”

  “What of Barone Lavonne?”

  That could not be helped. Abel met the gaze of the young knigh
t who, with a dozen men from Stern and a dozen from Wulfen, had been sent by Garr to uproot the murderers of the Wulfrith men-at-arms—welcome aid, for it had allowed Christian and Abel to divide into two contingents and cover more ground.

  “Send word that our rendezvous must needs be delayed until I determine the truth of what the lad tells.” Abel looked past the knight to the boy who had appeared as their camp was awakening. Squatting before the fire, the messenger who was aged perhaps a dozen years, greedily tore into the biscuits he had been given.

  It could be a trap, but it might also lead to what they had sought these past four days, two of which had been spent slogging over the sodden ground of a summer rain so hard and wet it threatened the harvest.

  Most unfortunate, the boy claimed he did not know who had paid him to deliver to Abel—most curious, Abel alone—the whereabouts of the brigands. He knew only that the man was bearded and carried a sword. It was likely a brigand, but whether he had been sent by Sir Robert to bait a trap or sought to undermine his leader could not be known. What Abel did know was that no more Wulfrith retainers would die for that misbegotten knave’s perverse pleasure.

  He pivoted toward his tent. “And now I shall require garments most foul.”

  Not a trap.

  Whoever had sent the boy was an ally. However, if he was among the dozens whose behavior spoke poorly of their leader’s ability to lead, it was impossible to say. Most of those idling about the disordered camp wore swords and an abundance of facial hair—including the red-headed, red-bearded Sir Robert.

  As Abel watched the man emerge from the largest of the stained and tattered tents that likely lodged the old baron, he closed his hand around his dagger and calculated its range. Highly questionable. It was for the best, though, since to give in to the impulse to sever the man’s life would surely see Abel surrounded and his own life forfeited.

  He uncurled his fingers from the hilt and once more considered the Wulfrith knight who was bound to the base of a tree. Though bandaged from whatever injuries he had sustained, Sir Mark appeared alert and more angered than pained. Obviously, the healer knew her craft.