The Redeeming: Book Three (Age of Faith)

by Tamara Leigh

  Aldous remembered, though the shiver that had shaken his devastated body whilst fomenting over Geoffrey’s death was far different from what shook him now. Then he had delighted in such imaginings but, strangely, now he was almost repulsed by them.

  Robert huffed a sigh of satisfaction. “So it shall be,” he pronounced. “As for your heir, dear father, just pray he does not come between me and my prey.”

  Aldous did not flinch, for he was not so fool to believe that, given the chance to inflict ill on his legitimate brother, Robert would deny himself. There had never been a question of it, and Aldous had done little dwelling on it. Now, however…

  Aldous swallowed hard. “Christian is not much, I grant, but still he is your brother.”

  Robert’s upper lip peeled back. “One whose every breath displaces mine. Nay, given the chance to face him, I will not turn my sword aside.”

  Dear Lord, Aldous silently beseeched, I know I am the one who set this in motion, but if You would but give me your ear, heed my beseeching that Christian not pay the price for my sins.

  “Now”—Robert peered over his shoulder—“all that is left to decide is what to do with you, Helene of Tippet.”

  Aldous looked to the healer who stood beyond Robert’s shoulder and saw the fear he had known would be in her eyes. “If you intend to abandon me, Robert,” he pushed past a dry, constricted throat, “have mercy and…leave the healer that she might comfort me during my final hours.”

  Robert snorted. “You think she would not also abandon you the moment my men and I ride?”

  Would she? Would he die here alone? If ever he was found, would there be enough left of him to identify whom he had once been? Or would the wild things that crept into the cave ravage his remains? Carry away his bones?

  A wind wound through the cave. Nay, not a wind. It was his old body whence the rushing air issued. Heart pounding fiercely, breath panted past his lips as if he ran with the devil at his heels. And perhaps he did.

  He squeezed his eyes closed. He would do better to think on righting the wrong done the healer that he might have fewer marks against him when he stood before the seat of judgment.

  Hoping that what he was about to suggest would not prove the woman’s undoing—that the Wulfrith knight would return with Christian—he looked up. “If you chain the healer to me, she will not be able to flee.”

  As the sound of Helene’s sharply indrawn breath traveled around the cave, Robert’s lowered eyebrows rose. For a long moment, he said nothing, and then he mused, “’Twould solve the problem, especially if the Wulfrith knight is incapable of tracking his way back here.”

  Meaning the healer might share Aldous’s tomb.

  Robert straightened. “Mayhap I will grant you this mercy, though I admit much of its merit lies in knowing you will have the sweet taste of benevolence in your mouth when you are consigned to hell and, thus, miss it all the more.”

  Aldous stared at his son who clearly believed he no longer had anything to gain from his sire. “So you do hate me.”

  Robert shrugged. “Hate for Aldous Lavonne is not hard to come by. Ask anyone. Nay, the scraping and bowing and all other manner of respect where none is due… That is hard to come by—a hell all its own.” He raised his eyebrows. “But soon enough you will know how it feels to ask and not receive, to know no hope, to accept that yours is a discarded life.”

  Though the backs of Aldous’s eyelids beckoned, he kept his son in sight—a man so embittered he wished hell upon his sire.

  Is that truly my destination, Lord? I do not argue against having earned it, but…

  What, Aldous Lavonne? What excuse can you possibly offer?

  No excuse, just regret for what I have thought and said and done that has delivered me and so many others to this moment.

  Robert sighed. “Aye, your end is near and, like me, ‘tis too late to change the outcome.” He pivoted, pushed heavily against the healer in passing, and strode from the cave.

  When he and his followers broke camp an hour later, a four-foot length of chain bound Aldous and the woman ankle to ankle—one bruised and abraded, the other skeletal and scarred.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  The day was beautiful, sprung as it was from the night that Gaenor had spent in her husband’s arms, a night that had slipped into dawn and lingered into late morning. Though she had yet to speak words of love or feel them caress her own ear, she sensed the emotion in the spaces between her and this man. And yet…

  Where she lay on her side, cradled against Christian’s chest, head tucked beneath his chin, she sank her teeth into her bottom lip. She supposed they had not known each other long enough for love to grow across those spaces, but what if it never did? What if it did not deepen into something that would last to their end days? Worse, what if the love between them was hers alone?

  She uncurled her hands and pressed them against his chest. His heart beat strong beneath her palms and, in moments, it beat faster. He desired her. He left her in no doubt of that—only of love.

  “Wife,” he spoke into her hair.

  Breathing deep in an attempt to suffocate her misgivings, she tilted her face up to his. “Husband.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Are we to lay abed all day?”

  Though her cheeks warmed at what she longed to speak, she spoke it anyway. “Could we?”

  A smile curved his mouth, and he fingered the tress that fell across her brow. “As I am now most awake and refreshed, what would we do?” His eyes laughed at her, but not in a cruel way.

  “Though yesterday’s cramping has not yet delivered my menses, methinks I will bleed this day.”

  Both eyebrows rose. “Aye?”

  He knew what she suggested, but did he truly mean for her to speak it? Fighting back the temptation to roll aside and grab her garments from where he had discarded them among the rushes last eve, she pushed up on an elbow, pressed him onto his back, and settled her face over his. “I would have your arms around me.”

  With his face in the shadow thrown by her curtaining hair, he reached up and touched the curve of her neck. “That is all?”

  “Nay.”

  His calloused fingers traveled to the base of her throat. “Then?”

  “I…” She shivered. “…like being your wife.”

  “Certes, you do a fine job of ordering my household.”

  She gasped. “You know that is not of what I speak!”

  He sighed. “Just as I know the barony does not manage itself and that already I have spent too much of the day without regard to my duties.”

  Disappointment bristled through Gaenor, but as she started to pull away, Christian swept her onto her back with such ease she felt as near a feather as one of her height might feel.

  “What is one more hour?” he rasped where he bent over her.

  She smiled. “Truly?”

  “Anything that is in my power to give, I shall.”

  Love as well? But she could not bring herself to ask it—not directly. As his head descended and their breaths became one, she provided him a way out if he chose to take it, asking instead, “Why?”

  At the instant she felt the brush of his lips, he hesitated, and it was some moments before he spoke. “You are my wife, and I am pleased it is so.”

  Only pleased?

  Stop it, Gaenor. Not so many days ago he was not pleased, believed terrible ill of you, would not touch you for the ruin of your virtue, would not stand before God. You are only at the beginning of two becoming one. Be patient.

  “I hope you are as pleased to have me as your husband,” he murmured, and she realized he had seen whatever emotions she had let loose on her face.

  Though tempted to pride, she determined she would let him know more of her than she knew of him. “I am beyond pleased,” she said and raised her head from the pillow. When she pressed her lips to his, she felt his hesitation again, but then he claimed her mouth. And breath. And perhaps even her heart. Hopefully, one day he would fe
el as deeply for her.

  In the next instant, Christian was off the bed.

  Gaenor gasped. “What is it?”

  Lower jaw thrust forward, he swept his garments from the rushes. “Someone has come.”

  “What?” No sooner did the word exit her mouth than she heard the pound of hooves, the snap of reins, and the urgency of voices beyond the windows. “Christian?”

  “They would not ride into the inner bailey,” he said as he thrust his arms into the sleeves of his tunic, “nor with such urgency, if they did not bear tidings of great import.”

  Dread seeped into Gaenor. “You think it has to do with Robert?”

  He lashed on his sword-burdened belt. “I would do well to think so.”

  Lord, let the tidings be good—that Robert is captured and will work no more ill upon the land.

  Determined to be at her husband’s side, she tossed back the covers.

  “Stay there.” He raised a hand to her as the pound of boots on the stairs warned there would soon be pounding on the door.

  Gaenor turned and lowered her feet to the floor. “I would accompany—”

  The heavy knock sounded. “My lord, riders have come!”

  “Cover yourself,” Christian ordered as he shoved his feet into boots.

  Gaenor complied, though she determined that the moment they were alone again, she would throw on her own clothes.

  Christian strode to the door, glanced over his shoulder to be sure she had covered herself, and wrenched the handle. In the corridor stood his anxious squire, but before he could tell what was to be told, his lord said, “Come,” stepped forward, and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Gaenor threw off the covers and stood. Whether her husband wished it or not, whatever had befallen Broehne, it was for her to know as well.

  At last the king’s men had come—and bearing a gift. Of sorts.

  Sir Mark lay on a trestle table, the fresh blood seeping through his tunic brightly contrasting with the dried blood of injuries dealt him a fortnight past. Fortunately, Michael D’arci was present, having been called to Broehne two days ago to contain the fever that had struck several of the castle guard. Armed with his physician’s bag, he entered the hall just ahead of Gaenor.

  Christian ground his teeth. He had been foolish to think his wife would remain abovestairs. Leaving Abel’s side, he strode around the table and into her path. When she tried to step around him, he caught her arm. “You need not be here.”

  She met his gaze. “I do.” She glanced past him to those gathered around the table. “Who is it?”

  “Sir Mark. The king’s men came upon him as they rode on Broehne.”

  She drew a strident breath. “The brigands did to him as they did to his men-at-arms?”

  Remembering how the savagery in the back of the wagon had affected her, Christian quickly reassured her, “Nay, he is whole. He lives, and not badly.”

  Her lids flickered. “Truly?”

  “He but requires tending. You need not—”

  “I will remain.”

  “Gaenor—”

  “Do you think me faint of heart?”

  She who stood so tall and proud that she could look down upon many a man? Forget that she had been shaken by the atrocities committed against Sir Mark’s companions. Forget that she was womanly and near vulnerable when she lay in his arms. She was a Wulfrith. His Wulfrith. “I would never think that, Gaenor.”

  “Then I would go to my brother’s knight.”

  Christian sighed, lightened his grip on her arm, and led her back the way he had come.

  As they approached the table, D’Arci looked up from where he had cut away the knight’s tunic to expose the source of bleeding. “It looks worse than it is,” he said. “Considering what Helene had to work with, he was well tended. I am fair certain infection has not set in.”

  At the table, Christian deferred to Gaenor, allowing her to take the position he had earlier filled alongside her brother near the knight’s head.

  “Sir Mark.” She caught up his hand.

  He turned his face toward her and opened his eyes wider, though still they were not much more than slits. “I am well, Lady Gaenor. I but tore my stitches during my flight from the brigands. Soon I will be ready to return to your family’s service.”

  “I do not doubt it, brave knight.”

  On an expelled breath, he relaxed deeper into the table and closed his eyes.

  Abel bent near him. “I am sorry to give you no rest, Sir Mark, but since you will not recover soon enough to lead us back the way you came, we must know more about the caves that Baron Lavonne might better determine our course of pursuit.”

  Gaenor looked to Christian. “Caves?”

  He inclined his head and said low, “The brigands’ encampment ere he escaped on the day past. There are three areas on the barony known to have caves. As the king’s men came upon Sir Mark but a league from Broehne, we cannot know at which caves he was held.”

  “The ones that lie to the west,” Sir Mark said, lids remaining lowered. “Within hearing distance of a waterfall—though barely, for ‘twas only when the camp was at its most quiet that I could discern it.”

  Abel peered past his sister.

  Christian nodded. “I know the caves. Though the brigands have surely broken camp, ‘tis our best chance of picking up their trail.”

  “Then we should ride.” Abel took a step back from the table, hesitated, and leaned near the knight again. “What of the healer? How does she fare?”

  Christian almost smiled for the pride it surely cost his brother-in-law to make such an inquiry. His wife had shared with him her belief that her brother’s distress over his inability to return the woman to her son was more than concern for the boy.

  Sir Mark opened his eyes enough to allow light to enter them. “If she were not of use in keeping the old baron alive, methinks the knave would not have stopped at beating her.”

  Abel jerked. “He beat her?”

  “Aye, and more than once after her last escape attempt.”

  Christian ground his teeth. Was there no end to this disease called Robert?

  Sir Mark sucked breath as D’Arci began to ply his needle. “But now that it appears Aldous Lavonne is near his end…” he said between clenched teeth.

  Abel growled something that might or might not have been a word.

  Though Christian felt Gaenor’s gaze, he kept his eyes on the knight. “How do you know my father is dying?” Not that Aldous hadn’t been dying for a long time, but this sounded nearer, like the roil of nausea moments before its violence is known.

  Sir Mark grimaced beneath D’Arci ministrations. “Yesterday, when the healer tended me, she whispered that your father is not much longer for this world.”

  Christian nodded. “Did she aid in your escape?”

  “Nay, she did not lift a finger to me without being closely watched.”

  “Then how did you manage to free yourself?”

  Sir Mark grunted—half laugh, half discomfort. “It seems one of Robert’s men is less than eager to number among his followers. Likely, I would now be dead had he not aided me, for a half hour earlier, Robert loudly declared that my capture had proved of no benefit and he would take pleasure in leisurely relieving himself of my presence.”

  Christian thought it safe to assume that whoever had aided Sir Mark was the same who had sent word of the camp’s location ten days past. “Who helped you?”

  The knight shook his head. “He was at my back when he cut my bindings, and he spoke in a whisper I did not recognize.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That I should remain where I was until I was not watched.”

  “Then there is no way to know which of Robert’s men it is.”

  Sir Mark’s attempt at a humorous grunt made him wince. “’Tis possible I could identify him by his odor, for I do not think I have ever smelled a human so foul.” He shrugged. “Still, I am grateful, for not a quarter hour
passed ere I was able to steal away.”

  “How long before they gave chase?”

  Sir Mark frowned. “I heard shouting and knew my absence was discovered minutes afterward, and yet no horses overtook me. Indeed, I did not even catch the distant sound of hooves.” He sighed when the piercing and tugging at his flesh ceased.

  “I will dress the wound,” D’Arci said as he cut the thread, “then you will rest.”

  “I thank you,” Sir Mark rasped and returned his attention to Christian. “As I was on foot and my injury kept me from traveling quickly, I do not understand why they did not come after me.”

  Christian shifted his gaze to Abel who was flushed with a restlessness that told he was past ready for the saddle and woe to any who did not match the pace he set. “’Tis time to put your tracking skills to use.”

  “Aye.” Abel gripped the Wulfrith knight’s shoulder. “It is good to have you back among us.” Without awaiting a reply, he turned and strode across the hall.

  Christian looked to the king’s men whose task it was to aid in hunting his brother to ground, then back at his wife. “We will be gone a day, perhaps more.”

  She turned to face him, and he saw worry in her tight smile. “I will be waiting for you.”

  He lifted her hands in his. “’Twill be over soon.” They were watched, but still he kissed her, albeit briefly. Then he released her and called to his squire.

  A half hour later, as he and his armored entourage of twenty strong rode from Broehne, Christian sensed Gaenor. Maintaining Abel’s pace, he looked back and saw she had left the inner bailey against his wishes and stood before the drawbridge watching him ride away. If not that there was a man-at-arms on either side of her and the castle walls were well fortified, he would have turned back and seen her bound hand and foot if that was what was required to keep her safe in his absence.

  He looked forward again. “’Twill be over soon,” he repeated his reassurance to the air that rushed past. Then life could truly begin for him and his Wulfrith bride.

  The baron of Broehne could not know that his time and effort—and that of the king’s men—would be better spent riding in a different direction. But he would know soon enough, providing the man’s wife could be got alone and was of a mind to cooperate.