“Safe travels.”
They only gave him irritated looks as they stepped away from each other to let peasant Valentine pass into the inn.
Young nobleman Valentine came out of the back of the inn a moment later, his basket abandoned, the bag over his shoulder now containing the peasant clothes. He set off toward Beckham Hall.
As he walked, he noticed the habit of the soldiers of carrying their bags across their backs, and so he looped the strap over his head.
Passing the rear of the bathhouse, he spied a helmet set atop a pile of clothes. He didn’t break stride as he kicked at the helm with the toe of his boot, flipping it into the air. He caught it with one hand and sat it beneath his elbow.
Up the hill toward the guardhouse he went, the sun approaching noon hot on his face. A cloak hung on the end of a rickety gate, its owner busy chatting with the young maiden in the garden beyond the fence. In a blink it was draped over Valentine’s shoulder as if made for him.
He glanced up at the keep, and far above on the third level, within the black square of a window, he saw a figure in a white gown.
He strode into the darkness of the hall, his senses immediately on alert for Mary’s whereabouts. He was in a terrible hurry; Francisco was coming up the coast to Beckhamshire to collect him. Considering his slow journey by cart that morning, Valentine only had a pair of hours at most.
Valentine walked to the far side of the hall as if with purpose. He needed to observe the layout of the room and detect the patterns of the soldiers within, all of whom it seemed had just returned from some military exercise. He placed a boot on a bench at a table, where it appeared a meal had been finished only moments before, the diner having departed. Valentine set the helm near the plate and picked up the nearly empty goblet for a prop just as a fresh cluster of men entered the hall.
“Ah,” he murmured to himself, seeing the red-haired man in the center of the group. The smug smile, the compensatingly long sword on his hip. “I must be in the presence of a general.” He raised the cup as if in salute when the man and his entourage passed by the table.
And then Valentine thought he had made a terrible mistake when the man glanced twice and then stopped, backing up a step to look closely at Valentine.
“My lord?” Valentine queried in his best English.
The rather ugly man continued to study Valentine’s face. “Have we met?” the man demanded. “I can’t seem to remember what you are called, but you look somehow familiar to me.”
Valentine gave a slow blink and bowed his head slightly, giving the impression of deference, but really his mind was whirring frantically. “John, my lord,” he said, rounding out the vowels of his accent. “John Miller. I . . . ah . . . served with you last eventide.”
The red-haired man frowned. “At Benningsgate?”
Valentine inclined his head again but said nothing.
“Hmm. That’s probably it. I was rather preoccupied.” The general pointed a gauntleted finger at Valentine. “Good work, there, Miller. Carry on.”
Valentine bowed and then lifted the cup to his mouth again, watching the general as he left his men at the bottom of a hidden-away stairwell on the side of the hall. The redhead went up the steps alone.
He lowered the cup slowly. Had Valentine just come face-to-face with Mary’s future husband?
Thick, hot jealousy filled him so that the wooden cup in his hand cracked. He set it down on the table when he felt the remnants of the cool liquid flow over his fingers, then wiped his hand on his cloak.
“You there—John Miller,” a man called, and Valentine looked up to see three of the men who had accompanied the general approaching his table. The boldest one addressed him. “I don’t recall seeing you last night at Benningsgate.”
Valentine shrugged. “Neither did I see you.”
One of the other men said in an aside, “I think I saw him. He was in the castle with the general.”
The leader blanched. “You were inside?”
“I serve where I am commanded.”
The man looked about nervously and then leaned slightly over the table toward Valentine. “Is it true? Did he really let the woman and the boy burn?”
Valentine tried to look aloof, but inside his guts roiled. “I know not what you mean.”
“Oh, come on,” the soldier pressed. “It will be out soon enough, any matter. So tell us then—did Lord Felsteppe really order Gerard’s wife and boy to die in that fire?”
Felsteppe?
Gerard?
Benningsgate Castle.
A rushing sound filled Valentine’s head, like the roar of a shell held to the ear. “Lord . . . Felsteppe?”
“Pardon me, General Felsteppe,” the soldier said with a roll of his eyes.
“What—” Valentine broke off, cleared his throat, swallowed—“what do you think?”
“A right bastard thing to do is what I think,” the man spat, standing upright once more. “You’re awfully cold about it yourself, aren’t you?” The soldier shook his head in disgust and started backing away, his friends going with him. “I’ve seen a bit of bloodshed, but to kill a woman and a little lad. Well, Lady Mary’d best be certain she doesn’t anger her new husband, s’all. Good luck with your conscience, Miller.”
Valentine had never before in his life fainted. Never come close, even. But in that moment, having heard that Constantine’s wife and son had been murdered only hours earlier by none other than Glayer Felsteppe, who had just walked past Valentine and was now somewhere above . . .
With Valentine’s Maria.
Glayer Felsteppe was going to marry Maria.
Valentine’s jaw clenched. His vision wavered with angry tears. His entire body shook with such rage that he wondered that he didn’t explode.
Valentine reached down into his boot to check that his dagger was still there, and then he looked toward the stairwell where Glayer Felsteppe had disappeared.
The man was armed. The entirety of the keep, as well as the village, was crawling with soldiers under Felsteppe’s command. To venture up those stairs was tantamount to committing suicide.
But Maria was up there with him at this very moment, with the man who had murdered Constantine’s family. Constantine, who had trusted Valentine enough to follow him to Melk. Constantine, who had welcomed a notorious loner into the group of Chastellet’s survivors as if Valentine belonged with them all the while.
And then Valentine realized he did belong there.
Constantine, Adrian, Roman—they were his friends, his brothers. They had been damned as one to the other, and the only way they would ever put things to rights was together. Valentine would not let his friend learn of the terrible fate of his wife and son through some cryptic message sent to Victor.
Valentine might now be a penniless reprobate with no home, no title, no wealth. Indeed, his only relative of any means was a pirate. But he was not without honor, and it was a priceless thing he would not lose this day to a maggot called Glayer Felsteppe.
Valentine left all his borrowed things save the cape he still wore beside the cracked and leaking cup on the table and walked boldly to the little alcove in the only guise he thought fitting: as himself. The stairwell was clear to the daylight above. Valentine gave a quick glance around before stepping onto the bottom riser and pulling the door closed quietly behind him. He engaged all the bolts and then reached down to withdraw his dagger from his boot.
Everything and everyone he’d ever fought to save before had been so that they could be set free. Today, he would fight for those he wished to hold close to him.
Mary had been waiting the whole of the night for Valentine, but he had yet to make an appearance. Neither had Glayer Felsteppe. So after she’d had her bath and dressed for the coming battle in the simple ivory and rose gown that was to have been her wedding costume, she turned the chair in her hall toward the stairs and waited.
Then she heard footsteps on the stairs, clomping, bold, clumsy—and she knew it w
as not Valentine even before she saw Glayer Felsteppe’s head emerge.
He stopped at the top of the stairs when he saw her, his hands at his sides, giving her an indulgent smile, as one might give a person of limited mental facilities.
“Lady Mary,” he said, pulling off his gauntlets and tucking them in his belt. “How my eyes thrill at the sight of your gentle person.”
“My lord,” she replied, her teeth feeling as though they might crack with the pressure on her jaw.
He stood there a moment longer, and then held his arms out from his sides. “Will you not greet your husband after he has been so long away?”
Mary forced herself to rise from the chair and met him in the middle of the floor, holding out her hands reluctantly for him to clasp. Glayer Felsteppe leaned in and kissed her temple, then came away to look at her from head to toe. His eyes searched her face.
“You look . . . different, somehow, from my memory,” he said with a puzzled smile.
“Much has happened since last we met,” she allowed.
His eyebrows knitted together. “Indeed. I was sorry to hear of the sickness at Beckham. Thanks be to God that you were spared. Would that I had been free to hie to your side. You will forgive me of course for not coming to you straightaway upon my arrival—there was a rather ugly matter to attend to.”
Mary’s stomach turned. “So I’ve been informed.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I ordered my belongings deposited in your chamber,” he said with a sly smile and reached out to touch her bottom lip with his thumb. It took all of Mary’s self-control not to slap his hand away. “We are to be married soon. I see no reason to forestall our acquaintance.”
She gave him a tight smile. “I would not risk your reputation as an honorable man. I had my own things moved to my nurse’s old chamber. It is only right that you sleep in the master’s apartment.”
This earned her a wide smile. “Well, as you wish, I suppose.” His expression grew thoughtful. “Are you certain you’re well? You seem . . . rather subdued.”
“I’ve been awaiting a visit from a friend,” she said. “I’m only preoccupied.”
“Well, your friend is here now, I daresay,” he said, drawing her into his arms. Mary felt the woodenness of her own posture. “I do vow, you are thrice as beautiful as when I left you.”
“Surely you would say the same to a serving wench,” she said, unable to help herself.
Glayer Felsteppe laughed. “I promise to the bottom of my heart that my thoughts have been filled with you alone in my absence. My bed has been a lonely one.”
Liar, Mary thought, before giving him a smile. “As lonely as mine, I’m sure.”
His smile faltered for only an instant. “Certainly.”
Mary thought she heard the cacophony echoing up from the hall below quiet, as if the door at the bottom of the stairs had been closed, but Glayer Felsteppe seemed not to notice.
“My lord,” she said loudly, hoping her voice would carry. “I am sure you want to refresh yourself after such distressing duties. I will call for your bath if you leave me alone here in the hall and retire to your chamber above.”
Glayer Felsteppe’s eyebrows wrinkled together and he drew his head back with a perplexed smile. “No need to shout, Lady Mary.”
“Yes, no need to shout,” came the smooth voice from behind Lord Felsteppe, who turned with an annoyed expression as Valentine arrived in the hall. He was dressed in a fine tunic and leggings, a black velvet cape hanging over his shoulders. His dagger was in his hand. “I want him to be very aware of my presence.”
Felsteppe frowned. “Miller?”
“Miller?” Mary repeated, her heart leaping into her throat as she pulled away from the redheaded man.
“Maria,” Valentine murmured.
“Who’s Maria?” Felsteppe asked. “Mary?”
“Valentine.” Mary smiled.
“Valentine?” Glayer repeated.
“Felsteppe,” Valentine growled, then raised his dagger higher.
Glayer Felsteppe blanched. “Wait. You . . . you are not one of my soldiers, John Miller? You weren’t at Benningsgate with me last night?”
Valentine pursed his lips and glanced at Mary. “He is no very quick, is he?” He looked back at Felsteppe, and the certain fury in his dark eyes took Mary’s breath. “Allow me to introduce myself, since we have no yet properly met: Valentine Alesander, friend to Roman Berg, Adrian Hailsworth, and—” Valentine’s eyes narrowed—“Constantine Gerard. Now that we are acquainted with each other . . . it is time for you to pay for what you’ve done.”
Felsteppe drew his sword with a ringing hiss and swept out his other arm toward Mary. “Get back, Lady Mary; in but a moment, I shall increase my wealth by one thousand pieces of silver.”
But Mary ran around his outstretched arm to stand between Felsteppe and Valentine. “No. He is innocent of the crimes he has been accused of.”
Glayer gave her a confused frown. “What are you doing?”
“Maria, move!” Valentine commanded.
But Mary did not budge, hoping with some small part of her that she could end this hunt here and now, and somehow convince Glayer Felsteppe to let Valentine go free. “They are all innocent. The men he spoke of were not behind the massacre at Chastellet—it was another who betrayed the king. Valentine wasn’t even there.”
Glayer Felsteppe seemed to be losing his patience. “What would you know of anything, you simple woman? Get out of the way.” Glayer moved a step closer.
Mary threw up her hands. “No! He is innocent, I tell you!”
“Maria,” Valentine said from behind her, “he knows I am innocent.”
Felsteppe’s eyes narrowed.
Valentine continued. “He knows all of us are innocent because it is he who betrayed Chastellet.”
“What?” Mary asked and looked to Felsteppe. “Is that why it was you at the Queen’s Inn? You’re leading the search for them because you are the traitor?”
“What do you know about the Queen’s Inn?” Felsteppe demanded.
“I saw you!” Mary shouted. “I heard what you said! You thief! You . . . you liar!”
“Come away now, mi amor,” Valentine ordered quietly. “He will no hesitate to kill you. He has already done as much to Constantine’s wife and son.”
Mary gasped and backed up slowly until she was standing slightly behind Valentine. “You killed them?”
But Felsteppe’s eyes were flicking from Mary to Valentine, his mind working. “You’re the Englishwoman,” he said at last. And then he roared, “Where have you been, Mary? What do you know?”
The sound of a door creaking filled the tense, vibrating silence, and from the direction of the chapel, Father Braund called, “Is everything all right? I heard shouting.”
Glayer Felsteppe glanced over his shoulder and Valentine rushed forward, slicing at the red-haired man’s sword arm. Felsteppe whipped his head around with a cry and slashed awkwardly with the sword even as blood gushed from his forearm. The blow glanced off Valentine’s ribs, laying open his tunic and the skin beneath it.
Mary screamed, and then heard the chapel door slam shut.
Valentine and Felsteppe circled each other in the hall, Mary’s chair between them. Felsteppe had moved his sword to his left hand, his right forearm dripping fat red splotches onto the wooden floor. Valentine pressed his left hand to his side briefly and then glanced down at his palm; it was slick with blood.
“You’ll never best me with that little splinter,” Felsteppe taunted, his breathing labored.
“No?” Valentine challenged. “Then why do you hesitate? Only come a bit closer and I will cut out your eyes and shove them down your throat so that you might witness your black heart as it ceases to beat, you filthy coward.”
Felsteppe feinted to the left and then slashed with a backhand motion. Valentine arched his body away from the blade and skittered back.
“It is you who retreats.” Felsteppe laughed. “But
go on, run around like a rabbit for a while if you would. It will only tire you out more quickly.”
“I can afford to bide my time,” Valentine said easily, placing the chair between them. “My wound is but a scratch. You, however—” he gestured toward Felsteppe’s dripping hand—“are ruining the floor with your blood.”
Felsteppe’s face was growing paler, in sharp contrast to his bright hair. Mary could see the fear in his eyes, and she hoped that it would be over soon.
Then a rapping sounded on the door at the bottom of the stairs.
“Lady Mary?” a warbly voice called. “Lady Mary? It’s Lady Elmsbeth.”
“Oh my God.” Mary gasped. “That woman has the worst timing!” She turned her head to call down the stairwell while still keeping an eye on the adversaries before her. “Go away, Dowager! I’m busy!”
“I don’t like the sound of your voice, young woman,” Lady Elmsbeth said, her disapproval clear. “Something is wrong; I can hear it. You let me up this moment or I shall have this door broken in!”
“Go away!” Mary shouted.
“Have you a pirate up there?” the dowager demanded.
Glayer Felsteppe must have at last realized the futility of continuing the battle alone, for he cried out, “Call for the soldiers to break down the door! Beckham Hall is under attack!”
“Good heavens!” the old woman shrieked.
“This is no good, Maria,” Valentine warned, still circling the chair as the first shuddering crashes against the door rang up the stairwell and filled the air of the hall.
“There are two hundred soldiers readying to cut you down, Alesander,” Felsteppe said with a greasy smile. “It would be kinder to yourself to run upon my blade now. Mary might want to look away first, since she clearly has misplaced feelings for you. Don’t worry—I shall rid her of them once we are wed.”
“Never,” Valentine vowed. “You will never touch her again.”
The crashes continued, and Mary heard the sound of wood splintering, metal screeching against stone.
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