by Tamara Leigh
Though grateful D’Arci had wasted no time seeing Beatrix and Gaenor away there, Christian could not help but wish his wife were waiting for him. Of course, the ill of this night might not yet be done, for it was possible Beatrix had not escaped dire injury, might even now—
“Make haste,” Christian called above Robert’s foul protests that, thankfully, had abated considerably, likely due to the pain of his injuries.
When they neared the border of the wood a short while later, a figure separated from a thicket ahead.
Instantly, Christian put his sword to hand. “Who goes?” he demanded, motioning for D’Arci’s men to halt.
“Sir Durand,” the knight called in a strained voice. “’Tis you, Baron Lavonne?”
“’Tis. And D’Arci’s men.”
The knight lurched forward, evidencing his weakened state. “Lady Beatrix?”
“I believe she is well.”
Another lurch, and Christian wondered how near to death Beatrix’s champion was. “You believe?’ Sir Durand rasped.
“As her husband has surely returned her to the castle, I cannot be certain, but soon we shall know.”
“Ha!” Robert crooned. “Does she live, I wager she is more dumb than before.”
Sir Durand’s bent figure halted its advance and straightened in the glow of moonlight between trees. “That miscreant is alive? Again you have let him live?”
Though Christian knew he owed the knight no explanation, he was moved to alleviate Durand’s distress. “Death will be his end when the king is done with him, and never again will he harm any you hold dear. You have my word.”
“’Tis not enough,” Durand growled. “I have not given all that Robert Lavonne should outlive me. Whether it be heaven or hell that awaits me, I will not go until I am certain Lady Beatrix is safe.”
Christian did not want to take offense that Durand’s concern was all for Beatrix when it was Gaenor with whom this man had lain, but he was angered that Durand had so little regard for the woman Christian esteemed and loved. Though, prior to the shock of coming upon Gaenor and Durand this day, Christian had come to believe his wife’s claim that her relations with the knight had happened the one time and many months before Christian had taken the name of Sir Matthew in the chapel at Wulfen Castle, here was further proof that, just as Durand’s heart did not belong to her, hers no longer lay in the knight’s direction.
She is mine, Christian whispered into his soul. I am hers.
He drew a deep breath. “Neither my wife, nor Beatrix D’Arci, will ever again suffer at my brother’s hands.”
Robert’s laughter was loud and almost crazed. “Only my death will ensure that. And I am far from dead, Sir Durand.”
The injured knight took another step forward. And stilled. He did not move for a long moment, then he drew his arm back and the blade that rode the cool night air whistled as it cut a path across the wood.
A thud sounded behind Christian. As he pivoted, a gurgle rose above the sharp shift of chain mail and Robert sagged between D’Arci’s men who immediately eased him to the ground.
Christian strode forward and dropped to his haunches alongside his brother. It took but a moment to determine that Durand had done what Christian had not at Beatrix’s trial. He had flown a dagger meant to kill, and it had found its mark in the column of throat above the chain mail tunic.
Robert convulsed, mouth opened and closed, eyes shuddered side to side, then he seemed to sink into the ground.
Christian momentarily lowered his lids. “God forgive you,” he breathed, then reached forward and closed the eyes of one who had happened upon an unexpected savior eager to give him the quick and merciful death for which he had longed.
Christian straightened and turned away, but where Durand had stood, he now lay. Christian ran forward and, shortly, confirmed that Beatrix’s champion lived, his breathing shallow and labored though consciousness was wiped from his face.
“My lord?” called one of D’Arci’s men.
“Leave Sir Robert,” Christian said. “Bring Sir Durand.”
Thus, the knight was carried out of the wood to Castle Soaring where he was laid upon a trestle table in the great hall alongside those whose wounds would, for all of their lives, tell the tale of what had transpired this night on the barony of Abingdale.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
The sight of her where she sat with her back to him beside the postered bed clasping Beatrix’s hand and speaking in hushed tones made Christian pause. Though he had been assured that she and her sister were well enough to allow D’Arci to turn his attention to Abel’s tenuous hold on life, not until this moment of seeing his wife did he turn from beseeching God to praising Him.
Grateful for the hasty shedding of his chain mail, the ring of which might remind both women of what neither wished to soon revisit, he stepped over the solar’s threshold.
“‘Twas you who saved me, Gaenor,” Beatrix said, gingerly shifting against the pillows and drawing Christian’s regard to the sling that held her left arm.
He clenched his jaws. Obviously, he had not quickly enough cut the rope to prevent her from being injured. Still, though her arm had likely been pulled out of joint, at least it had not been torn from her body.
“Truly,” Beatrix continued. “Michael says it is so.”
Gaenor leaned forward and brushed the hair off her sister’s brow. “It was not all me, but I am glad to have given back some of what you gave me when…”
“When you first fled Christian Lavonne,” Beatrix said softly.
Gaenor sighed. “Would that I had known then that I had naught to run from.”
“Since we cannot know what will be, we can only a-act according to what we do know, Gaenor. And after all that has transpired between the Wulfriths and Lavonnes, you had cause to flee.”
“But the second time…I should have trusted Garr’s judgment, should not have heeded Sir Durand.”
“Which you would not have had to choose between had you known who had tried to steal your heart at Wulfen, hmm?”
Christian turned aside his resentment. Beatrix was right. Achingly so.
With a weary laugh, Gaenor said, “When I read your missive that Christian delivered to me, I was amazed by what you saw from afar.”
Beatrix gave an answering laugh that bespoke greater fatigue, its slurred edges likely the result of whatever medicine her husband had given her to alleviate the pain. “My w-words might oft drag and become lost on their way to my tongue, but still I can ponder and reason. Still I can turn pieces until I find a fit. Still I can recognize suffering and the heart’s ache upon another’s face. Still I can see and feel where there is l-love and where it is not.”
Gaenor’s shoulders rose with a full breath. “Forgive me for underestimating you.”
“I shall, but only after you forgive yourself.”
After a long moment, Gaenor said, “I wish to, but I fear my actions have broken more things than they have mended, that never will Christian—”
“You are wrong, Wife.” He stepped into the sudden quiet of the solar and, as he trod the rushes with long-reaching strides, met the wide-eyed gaze Gaenor turned upon him. An instant later, she was on her feet. Then she was in his arms.
“You are well,” she gasped. “Michael said it was so, that you cut loose one of the horses, vowed that you would prevail over Sir Robert, but still I feared.”
“For naught,” he spoke into her hair that, strangely, smelled of smoke. “And you need fear no more.” He lowered his gaze to Beatrix whose flaxen hair poured out from beneath the bandage wound around her head. “Sir Robert is dead.”
He felt the shudder that passed through Gaenor and saw the same move her sister’s shoulders.
Gaenor pulled back. “’Tis over?” Her hair on the left side was singed above the charred shoulder of her gown, explaining—though not really—the smell that wafted from her. However, as much as Christian longed for an accounting, he held the demand from
his lips. Whatever ill had befallen her, she was whole, and there was time aplenty to learn how she had come to be in the clearing and what had befallen her there.
“Aye,” he said, “‘tis over, brave wife.”
She reached up and gently traced the places on his face and neck that had known the blades of brigands nearly as well as the edge of Robert’s sword.
“I am well,” he assured her.
She began to smile, only to let the expression dissolve. “Have you word of Abel?”
It was unfortunate that she and Beatrix knew of their brother’s injuries, for Christian would not have them worry, but he had been told that they had seen Abel laid out in the hall upon their return from the wood.
“Michael tends him and says that he fares well.” That was not entirely true, but she and her sister need not know the extent of the damage. Not now when later would still be too soon.
“And Sir Durand?” Beatrix asked.
“’Twas he who felled Robert Lavonne.”
Both women caught their breath.
Again, the tale in its entirety could wait. “I brought Sir Durand out of the wood,” Christian continued. “When D’Arci has finished with Abel, he will see to the knight.”
“His injuries are dire?” Beatrix asked.
“They are.”
She stared at him, then gripped her right hand over her left that the sling caused to rest upon her abdomen.
It was then Christian noticed her wrists were bandaged, evidence that she had suffered rope burns in addition to a dislocated shoulder.
“Much is owed to Sir Durand,” she said.
Doubtless, Gaenor had told her sister what the knight had done for love of her. “Aye, much,” Christian agreed.
She tilted her chin up. “Enough to gain f-forgiveness?”
He sensed there was more behind her words than what struck the ear. Did she know about Sir Durand’s indiscretion with her sister? Had Gaenor told? Or had Beatrix fathomed the truth as she had done about Christian’s training at Wulfen?
“Is it enough?” she pressed.
What had gone before no longer mattered. Though he had good reason to dislike Durand for the pain visited upon Gaenor, the knight’s actions these past weeks and this day, even if only for Beatrix’s sake, had earned him grace aplenty.
Christian glanced at Gaenor and found her watching him. “Aye, Lady Beatrix, where I am concerned, Sir Durand has made restitution. Hence, it falls to your brother to determine his fate.”
Her shoulders eased. “I believe Garr will be as fair as you have been, though methinks he will not allow Sir Durand to return to our family’s service.”
That Christian did not doubt.
“I fear, though,” she continued, “what the king will do to him.”
“I shall speak for Sir Durand if needs be,” Christian heard himself say. Of course, that was dependent on whether or not D’Arci was able to salvage the knight’s life.
Beatrix smiled. “I thank you, my lord.”
“As do I,” Gaenor said.
Jealousy tugged at Christian, but he refused to allow it to take hold, for it was not a place he wished to go again. He owed Gaenor far more than that.
“Now,” Beatrix said, sinking back into the pillows upon which she was propped, “I would like to sleep.”
Gaenor stepped out of Christian’s embrace and drew the covers up over her sister. “Rest well.”
“Pray, wake me when you have word of Abel.”
“Of course.” Gaenor watched her sister’s lids flutter closed, then kissed her brow. Straightening, she turned to Christian who, in answer to her prayers, had come back to her.
He held out a hand and, as she reached for it, she saw the dagger he had fastened on his belt alongside his own dagger.
“All is well,” he assured her. Then, enfolding her hand in his, he led her from the solar and closed the door behind them. As the thick planks settled into the frame, he looked back at Gaenor. “Tell me of your sister’s injuries.”
She drew a deep breath. “Her arm was pulled partially out of its socket but, fortunately, Lord D’Arci reset it ere she regained consciousness. Too, her wrists are deeply abraded.”
“What of her head injury? Has she suffered further damage?”
“It appears she is the same as before. Though she aches and is tired, she otherwise seems herself. Michael believes she will fully recover.” She bit her lower lip. “You will tell me what happened in the wood with your brother?”
“I will, but…” His jaw shifted. “…first I would tell you that your words found me when I rode into Soaring and gave me more hope than I am worthy of—that they sustained me through battle and bloodshed.”
Then her desperate declaration flung across the night had not been in vain. “’Tis as I hoped.”
The corners of his mouth jerked as if toward a smile, but that was all, as if he did not quite trust that he had anything to smile about. “I pray that, in time, you will forgive me for allowing jealousy to rule my words and deeds, for not trusting you as you deserve to be trusted, for not sustaining you as you have sustained me.”
Deciding she would be the first to smile, Gaenor stepped nearer and laid a hand upon his cheek. “The time is now. All is forgiven, for I do love you, Christian.”
His mouth curved. “As I love you, Gaenor.”
He did. It was in his eyes, sweeping her with a warmth more full and satisfying than any she had known. Then his mouth claimed hers, and in his kiss was the promise that their marriage would be far more than one of alliance, that they would make a good, long life together, that their love would bear children—
She startled. What if he yet doubts? What if he does not truly believe all I have told? What if he thinks…?
Christian lifted his head. “What is it?”
There was nothing for it. And it was better told now than later. “Christian, I believed my flux was upon me, and it should be, but still it is not. It might yet come, but I fear—”
He pressed a hand to her abdomen. “If our child grows in you, I will rejoice in knowing that soon I shall be a father. If our child does not yet seek this world, then I will rejoice in being gifted with more time in which to know and cherish you.”
Feeling tears, she said, “You are certain?”
“Aye. From this day onward…” He hesitated, but before she could worry over his silence, he said, “With you at my side, I shall think love, feel love, breathe love, and embrace love.”
Then here, by God’s grace and Christian’s love, she had found her place. “So shall I.”
He lightly traced her lips with his thumb, pausing at each turned up corner, then he kissed her again, and she pressed herself so near that the hilt of the weapon on his belt dug into her ribs.
When they parted, she lowered her gaze to the question that was yet unanswered. “You wear a Wulfrith dagger.”
“Aye. ’Twas taken from Robert that it might be returned to Sir Mark.”
“Ah, I thought mayhap you had been awarded one.”
He frowned. “You would like that?”
“I would, though only because I can think of none worthier to wear one.”
He chuckled. “I am well pleased with my own dagger, Gaenor. But as for one worthier to wear a Wulfrith dagger, I would say the brave woman who defied her husband and saved her sister’s life is more deserving.”
She laughed. “I am no warrior.”
He tilted her chin up. “Are you not?”
How she loved this man! “When I must needs be.”
He lingered over her face, then said, “’Twill be a long night. While we wait for word of Abel and the others, I would hear tale of how you came to be in that clearing.”
She groaned. “You will not be angry with me—or Michael’s men?”
“I do not doubt you will give me cause to be so moved, but I vow to remind myself often that you are hale and whole. And a Wulfrith.”
“But now a Lavonne.”
“Aye, my wife.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Abel would live. Rather, he would not die from the savage injuries dealt him by the three brigands it had taken to drive him to the ground.
Upon regaining consciousness on the day past and learning of all he had lost, his wrath had resounded around the donjon for what seemed hours, then he had fallen silent, staring as if only darkness lay before him, speaking not a word nor letting so much as a groan part his lips, ignoring all beseeching to drink and eat—as if he was, after all, dead.
“If he wills it,” Michael spoke low, “he has as much chance of reaching a good old age as Sir Durand.”
Durand whose life Michael—and Beatrix—had saved, Michael with his physician’s skills, Beatrix with her presence. Or so Gaenor believed, for it was not until Durand received Beatrix at his side that his sickly pallor receded. And today he was out of bed, even if only briefly. Unfortunately, many more had died, including Michael’s old friend, Sir Canute.
“However,” Beatrix’s husband continued, “as Abel was raised to be a warrior, he surely believes his injuries make him less than whole and, thus, no longer capable or worthy. And that belief will serve him ill. Not only will he be broken in body but in soul.”
Gaenor looked past her brother-in-law to Abel who lay unmoving upon the bed despite Beatrix’s hand grasping his and her soothing words that were answered by not so much as a flicker of the eye—the same as when Gaenor had sat beside him hours earlier.
“He cannot die,” she said.
Christian squeezed her hand. “Surely Baron Wulfrith can bring his brother around.”
Gaenor met her husband’s gaze where he stood alongside her at the chamber’s door. With the passing of two days since the attack on Soaring, more and more hope was placed in Garr’s ability to reach their youngest brother. Providing Garr was present at Stern Castle when the messenger delivered the missive, he should arrive at Soaring by this eve.