Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  “We will leave Worthing a note to follow us. I fear my child is in real danger if we do not find Lady Swenton soon.” He no longer cared for Satiné’s safety beyond her being the mother of his unborn child. She had betrayed him for the last time.

  Lexford’s gaze clung to his. “As always, I am your servant, Swenton.”

  *

  At the last minute, instead of insisting the man accompany them to the monastery, Lexford had suggested they send the rascal with the message for Worthing. “The note explains to Viscount Worthing where we will be and what we require of our friend,” Lexford had explained to the wastrel. “It also instructs Lord Worthing to present you with a generous reward.”

  John had not been so “kind” in his instructions. “If you fail to do as Lord Lexford requests, I will find you, and you will know my ire.”

  The ruins had not been difficult to locate. A premonstratensian monastery near one of the tributaries of the River Adur, the ruins was situated within a valley. Towers topped by crenellations marked the corners of the defensive walls, which were likely used during the Hundred Years’ War. The structure was a reflection of several centuries of English history.

  “I did not anticipate the monastery being so intact,” Lexford observed.

  John studied the remains. “It appears at one time a church had been built in the center of the open area. We have several configurations to examine.”

  Lexford checked his gun. “Best if we separate. I will take the towers on the left. You search those on the right. We will meet in the church.”

  John nodded his agreement and waked away, but Lexford’s final instructions stayed him. “Today will define your future, Swenton. This is your turning point. Be certain whatever action you choose it is something with which you can live forever.”

  *

  John had searched the first of the battlements, systematically climbing the stairs and examining each of the rooms thoroughly, discovering only the crumbling walls of the battlement and a magnificent view of the valley and the hills leading to South Down. He looked across to where Lexford climbed a like structure. Other than his friend and a few sheep upon the hillside, nothing moved. John wondered if the Prince’s former servant had deceived them. “It would be appropriate,” he grumbled as he descended the bricked steps to the ground level. “Of late, I suspect my clothes are monogrammed with the word ‘rustic.’”

  With resignation, he began a slow and calculated climb of the second tower. As with the first, each of the rooms had proved empty until he reached one of those closest to the crenellation. He opened the door cautiously to peer inside. At first, only shadows claimed his attention, but then a moan and the outline of a bed announced he had found her. John rushed to release Satiné. “My God! What has Jamot done to you?” Placing his gun down where he could retrieve it if necessary, John tore at the bindings, which stretched his wife’s arms painfully over her head. “Speak to me, Satiné,” he coaxed, as he released the first of her hands and massaged it to restore the blood flow. “I am grieved you have suffered so,” he whispered with regret. Despite his earlier thoughts of leaving his wife to her own devices, when he observed her degradation, John’s honor had returned.

  He jerked the second leather strap free of the metal ring and bent to rub her arms briskly. “Wake for me, Satiné. Tell me where I might find Jamot. We are not safe until I eliminate the Baloch.”

  “I fear your baroness has not opened her eyes since before I found her at the inn.” John had recognized Jamot’s voice immediately. He looked up to see the Baloch sporting a single-shot volley pointed at John’s chest. “In fact, her only words have been the calling of her lover’s name and her begging Prince Henrí for completion. It appears Lady Swenton prefers the Prince of Rintoul to you.” A smirk of bemusement crossed the Baloch’s countenance.

  John tasted the vile invectives, which rushed to his tongue. Despite Prince Henrí’s continued rejection, Satiné still yearned for the man. He stood slowly to face his enemy. Foolishly, he had left his gun on the bed beside Satiné; he would require his wits to outmaneuver the Baloch. “My wife is ill: Baroness Swenton is easily confused.” With a bold lie, John added, “I am not offended by her musings.”

  Jamot scoffed. “Then you must be a god rather than a man for a man wishes for nothing more than to hear his name upon the lips of the woman he affects.” When John did not respond, the Baloch added, “You do hold a tendre for Lady Swenton, do you not, my Lord?”

  “My feelings for my wife are none of your concern.” He thought to draw the Baloch’s attentions from Satiné while John discovered a means to save her. It would still be some time before Lexford realized John required his assistance. “What have you done with my wife’s jewels?”

  The Baloch stepped closer, the flare of fury in his eyes. “Instead, perhaps you would care to tell me where I might find Mir’s emerald.”

  Behind him, Satiné stirred, and John knew the time for talk had ended. With the chaos of the previous week supplying the dark ferocity of his ire, he approached Jamot, prepared for the confrontation.

  “You will fight for a woman who does not love you?” the Baloch sneered.

  John did not answer. He slowly cross-stepped to the right. He must remove the Baloch if he was to rescue Satiné. Without preamble, Jamot fired the gun he held, but John had anticipated the coward’s action; he dove for the floor and rolled to his feet before he lunged at Mir’s man.

  They clutched each other, blows raining down upon their heads. The sound of bone against bone filled the small room. Grunts. Gasps. A hissing whistle. A Curse. Yet, the struggle never slackened. John fought not only for his life and that of Satiné, but also for the loss of his hopes. For the despair of his dreams.

  Jamot flipped John to his back, a rush of air escaping John’s lungs, but he pulled his knees to his chest, just in time to meet the Baloch’s next assault. He kicked Jamot’s chin, striking his enemy a jaw-snapping blow. Before the Baloch could recover, John was on his feet and delivering first a straight jab to Jamot’s cheekbone and then a left cross to his enemy’s nose. All went silent following the thud of the Baloch’s body crashing to the floor.

  John swayed in place. He was certain his eye would be swollen shut by morning, but there was no time to dwell upon his enemy. First, he toed Jamot’s body to assure the Baloch was truly unconscious; then he returned to Satiné’s side. This time John wasted no energy in coaxing his wife; instead, he caught her arms and hoisted his wife to her feet. John experienced the pain as he inhaled. Likely, he possessed several broken ribs, making maneuvering Satiné’s limp body more difficult. When his baroness crumpled into his arms, he managed to catch her with his forearm instead of hauling her to him.

  “Come, Satiné,” he growled in a stiff gasp. “You must assist me in your rescue.” He bolstered her higher and slapped her cheeks soundly to clear her vision.

  “Henrí?” she murmured as she reached for him.

  “Damn it, Satiné!” John caught her shoulders and shook her more violently than he intended. “I am not your bloody Henrí! Your precious prince has abandoned you. I am John Swenton, your husband,” he snarled with disgust. Without thinking of the consequences, he shook her harder. “Do not say Rintoul’s name ever again,” he warned. “I will tolerate your manipulations no longer.” His anger consumed him as John pulled his baroness into his embrace and kissed her roughly.

  “John?” she whispered when he released her.

  “Yes,” he said grudgingly, remorse rushing through his veins. “John. I have come for you.” He caressed her cheek, where his fingers had left four red whelps. “We must escape before Jamot awakes. Can you walk?” He clutched at his chest and struggled for a breath. “I do not believe I can carry you.”

  She ignored his suggestion. “Why?”

  John caught her elbow to turn her steps. “Why what?” he asked with difficulty.

  “Why will you not permit me to go?” Satiné spoke with reason when there was none.<
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  John stopped suddenly. “Go where?” His frown lines deepened in disbelief. “Leave with Henrí? Follow your prince to France?” His voice rose with each accusation. “To be Rintoul’s whore?” He sucked in an agonizing breath. “You are not my mother, and I am certainly not Jeremiah Swenton! You will return with me to Marwood where I will oversee your care. I mean for you to deliver a healthy heir for my title.”

  His wife’s vision cleared, and John knew his world had tilted on its axis. “There is no heir: My monthlies have returned.”

  Darkness consumed his soul. No heir. His mind beat out the words in a rapid tattoo. No heir. No future. No dreams. Only emptiness. He had placed his fate and his family’s name in the hands of constant manipulator. “I suppose it is best,” he reasoned aloud. “A child should know the love of both his parents. I, of all people, should recognize the futility of a disastrous birth.” He had not cried since he was a child, but tears misted John’s eyes. He had lost everything: After discovering his marriage vows null, he should have thrown caution to the wind and chased after Isolde Neville. A cry of anguish choked his throat, but John forcibly drove it away. “We will continue this once we reach York.” He caught his baroness’s hand and dragged her around Jamot’s body. “Come now,” he demanded.

  “But the bad troll will catch us,” she protested in a childlike voice.

  John turned to glare at his wife. She was lost in her delusions once more. “I will protect you,” he said a bit testily. His frustration had risen quickly, adding to his continued ire. “We must hurry though.”

  Exiting the small room, John turned toward the interior steps for the exterior ones had collapsed long prior. The blood and his badly bruised pride pounded in his ears, mixed with Satiné’s continued delusional protests, and so he had not heard Jamot’s rise from the floor to give chase. John felt, rather than heard, the Baloch’s approach, but it was too late. “Run, Satiné!” He shoved his wife forward just at the weight of Jamot’s body drove John, face first, into the stone floor.

  *

  She ran as her husband had ordered, but the shadow of another upon the stairs had frightened her. In her laudanum-assisted brain, Satiné recognized the monster from her childhood–tall, some ten feet, and dark and brandishing a weapon.

  Instinctively, she had turned to the right and hid behind a column of stone as her worst nightmare barreled past her. She bit her lip to stifle the fear rising to her throat, and although the dark shadow had taken no note of her secret place, she felt no relief, for the large troll of her dreams possessed many followers, each trained to defend his king. It had been the troll king who had claimed her parents. No matter what her Uncle Charles had said of her misgivings being foolish, Satiné had known differently. If she had not cowered in fear when the troll king had arrived upon her nursery room threshold, her parents would not have met such an awful death.

  Mustering her fleeting courage, she surveyed the room: immediately, she realized she had erred. Hiding from the king had delivered her into the hands of four of his minions. Satiné opened her mouth to scream, but the troll’s followers had stolen her cry from her lips. Frightened, she jammed the knuckles of one fist into her mouth to silence the sound.

  Do not be frightened, the quartet said together. It was all so odd, their lips moved, and although no words escaped, Satiné understood them perfectly. We mean only to assist you to freedom. We will permit you to follow your dreams.

  She wished to ask them how they meant to foil both Lord Swenton and their king, but she followed their silent commands and retrieved a small stool. The tallest and most handsome of the quartet motioned her to place the stool before the window. When Satiné hesitated, the trolls bowed prettily and gestured her forward. This time her feet moved, although if asked, she would have claimed she had floated upon the air. Step up, they told her. Step up, and the clouds will carry you home.

  *

  John could barely breathe, but when Jamot rose to strike him again, he managed to use his arms to flip himself onto his back. The Baloch’s fist punched the stones cut to form the floor, a curse announced his enemy’s pain; yet, Jamot ignored John’s manipulations and attacked again. In many ways, John admired the Baloch: Jamot was a skilled fighter, one trained to persevere over all odds; however, his respect for the man’s ferocity would never override John’s response.

  Suddenly, a shadow filled the still open door, one strong enough to rip Jamot from where he pressed John into the floor. He rolled to his left side and fought for a breath that would bring excruciating pain to his chest while behind him the battle raged on. Without looking to the sound of men in battle, he knew Aidan Kimbolt had arrived in time to save John’s life. With difficulty, John crawled to his knees: Duty demanded he return to the fray. He could not permit Lexford to be injured or killed. His friend possessed a wife and family, something John would never know.

  Staggering to his feet, he righted his stance just as Lexford caught Jamot’s wrist and wrenched the knife from the Baloch’s hand. Jamot must have recognized the danger of fighting two for the Realm’s enemy kicked Lexford in the gut as the viscount advanced, doubling Lord Lexford over, before striking John with a stiff forearm across his chin. John fell backward, and the Baloch rushed from the room, his boots a quick drumbeat upon the stone steps.

  Out of breath and clutching his manhood, Lexford asked, “Are you injured?”

  “Been better,” John growled through winces of shooting pains. “Is Satiné safe?” he asked as he slumped hard against the stone wall.

  Lexford stiffly straightened. “I did not see your lady.” His friend started for the door.

  “No!” John stopped him. “I cannot…confront Jamot again. You must chase…the Baloch. I will seek out…Lady Swenton. She is far from coherent…and may look upon you…as an enemy.”

  Lexford nodded. “Be safe. Once I have dealt with the Baloch, I will return for you.”

  As his friend passed, John caught his arm. “Aidan,” he said softly. “Take no chances. Lady Lexford…and your son…require your return…to Cheshire. If necessary…permit another…to claim…Jamot’s life.”

  “Soon you will know a child’s love,” the viscount assured. “You will escort Lady Swenton to Marwood.”

  John experienced the customary emptiness as it returned to his soul. “Before she sought the safety in the tower, Satiné informed me there is no child.” He closed his eyes to avoid the pity in his friend’s expression. “Now hurry. We must know of Jamot’s plans.”

  With the viscount’s exit, John readjusted his waistcoat and jacket. He had lost several buttons and the back of his sure-fine was in shreds. Gathering his remaining strength, he recovered his gun from Satiné’s makeshift bed and exited. Looking to his right, he thought aloud, “If Lexford saw nothing of Satiné as he climbed to this storey, then…” John’s eyes skimmed the steps leading to the ground floors before realizing his wife must have turned to the left instead. “She went up.”

  Biting away the stabbing jolt of pain, which accompanied each breath he swallowed, John slowly climbed the stairs. Above was the battlement. Yet, when he reached the parapet, his wife was nowhere to be found. “Bloody hell!” he growled. “Satiné! Where are you?” he called angrily. It would be necessary for him to search each of the levels again to locate her. He turned to the steps, but a familiar sound caught his attention. “What the…?” His eyes scanned the area, but he was the only one on the top of the tower; yet, he knew his wife was close. Satiné was talking. No, his wife was singing.

  Rushing to the crenellation, he leaned past the crumbling merlons to view the floors below. “Lord God,” he prayed when he saw the top of her head.

  He bolted to the stairs, running down them, sliding over the smooth stones and skimming over the edges. “Please, God,” he repeated with each step. “Protect her.”

  John ignored the room in which he had fought the Baloch; instead, taking a second set of stairs, he came to a skidding halt in a nearly empty room. T
he only piece of furniture not in shambles was a small stool, one set before the window.

  The tower sported five storeys, counting the battlement. The window, some three feet wide by four and a half feet tall, was one on the third storey, and his wife had walked or crawled out upon the narrow three-inch ledge, which was an extension of the roof of the room below. John spied upon her from the window: Satiné stood, back to the wall and looking out upon the fields below. She was too far out for him to reach her easily. The one from which he peered was the only window in the room: Like it or not, he must go after her.

  Not wishing to frighten her, John leaned out the window and spoke in soft tones. “There you are, my Dear.” He spoke as if he had come upon her in Satiné’s favorite sitting room. “May I join you?” With difficulty, he had removed his boots and jacket before he lifted his weight to the framed opening. He had ripped his cravat from about his neck and laced the end of it through a metal ring mortared into the wall, one similar to those, which had imprisoned her in the other chamber. He would use the tether to keep his balance: John tied the end of the cloth about his right wrist and forearm.

  His wife had not answered; she continued singing a sad Scottish lullaby, but Satiné had not warned him away. Carefully, John inched closer to her. Again, fearing it might frighten her into action, one that could prove disastrous, he did not reach for her or touch her–just moved close enough for a strategic grab, if necessary. His right hand had a death grip on the window’s framing and his left palm rested against the rough bricks of the tower’s exterior. “I am here, Darling.” John offered no move in her direction; he simply held his breath and waited for Satiné to react to his presence.

  She ceased her singing and turned her chin in his direction. Although Satiné looked upon his countenance, John suspected she did not truly see him. Rather, she imagined an image, which had driven her to seek this lofty perch. “Did the trolls provide their permission for you to join me?”