by Deborah Hale
Briefly, Cecily threw herself into his embrace, delighted to find him alive. Other nearby combatants, whom she recognized as her own castle folk, began taking up the cry that their lady had returned to Brantham. The news clearly heartened them, for they pressed their attacks with fresh vigor.
“How goes the fighting?” she gasped.
“We will prevail, my lady,” Piers Paston assured her. “It is only a matter of time. The men of Brantham have chafed under DeBoissard’s garrison for a fortnight. Now that we are armed and able to fight, we will have satisfaction for the ill they have done us. A few of DeBoissard’s henchmen have already taken to their heels.”
Cecily clapped him on the arm. “I know the men of Brantham will give good account of themselves. So I will leave you to your task. Can you tell me which way my lord DeCourtenay went?”
The castellan’s eyes widened. “So that is who you fetched to deliver us from evil? I cannot speak from certain knowledge, my lady, but some of the attackers rushed straight into the keep itself. I’ll wager there is fighting in the great hall.”
“Then I shall join in.” Plucking his sword from the dust, Cecily handed it back to him. “You may go back to cleansing Brantham of Fulke’s vermin. But no heroics, mind. I would have you hale and whole for the victory feast when this is done.”
“If I had the ordering of you, my lady, I would charge you the same.”
“Never fear for me,” Cecily called back as she scrambled toward the door of the keep. “Fortune smiles upon me—I can feel it. Fulke will soon be vanquished and all will be well.”
Charging up the winding stairs to the great hall, she all but collided with one of Fulke’s men. Perhaps he was trying to flee, which made him even more dangerous, as she stood between him and a break for the relative safety of the bailey.
They traded sword blows in the treacherously shifting shadows. Cecily hated fighting on stairs. A misstep could spell disaster. Besides, her opponent had the advantage of higher ground.
Feeling her way carefully with her feet, she concentrated on parrying his thrusts, all the while falling back safely. Then, just at the right moment, she made a feint, leaving herself open. With a grunt of triumph, her opponent seized the opportunity. When he lunged forward, Cecily ducked and swung at his ankles.
As the swordsman flailed to recover his lost balance, she flattened herself against the wall and leapt up a step or two, to avoid his plummeting body.
Cecily’s heart hammered in her chest as she raced up the last few stairs into the great hall. She could hear the clash of weapons. The timbers beneath her feet seemed to throb with the cadence of combat.
Swordsmen filled the hall. Some had lost their weapons and grappled hand-to-hand. Others thrust and parried, dodging over fallen tables and benches. From a quick glance around, it appeared to Cecily that DeCourtenay’s forces were winning. More than one of Fulke’s men was engaged by a pair of attackers.
Her gaze settled on Rowan, trading sword blows with Fulke DeBoissard in front of the hearth. Without a moment’s hesitation, she ran to his aid lest one of Fulke’s men win free and attack Rowan from behind.
So focused was she upon her course that she did not notice one of Fulke’s men lunge toward her.
By some unaccountable instinct, she raised her sword at the last possible instant to fend off his blow. With a cry of outrage she pushed him back. Borne on a surging tide of righteous wrath, she dispatched him with ease.
Then Fulke’s voice rang out in mocking triumph. “Throw down your weapons! I have DeCourtenay!”
Cecily’s singing blood froze in her veins. Rowan’s men froze, also, looking to her for direction. She scarcely noticed them as her eyes locked on Fulke DeBoissard and the dagger he held to Rowan’s throat.
“My thanks to you, Lady Cecily.” The gloating note in Fulke’s voice made her gorge rise. “You managed to divert my enemy just long enough to give me the advantage. I don’t know what he is to you, but I’d advise you order his men to stand down, if they are too stupid to do it otherwise.”
Rowan had come to harm on her account, thanks to her recklessness. The notion pierced Cecily to the heart.
“He is my husband, and if you do him injury, you will answer to me! Hold your positions, men.”
If she could have closed the gap in time, she would have come between Rowan and Fulke’s blade with her own body. But that was not possible. Now she must avoid rash action at all costs, or Rowan would pay the price for her folly.
She had only one thing with which to bargain, and it was every bit as precious to her as her own life.
From out in the bailey a joyous cry rose. Rowan heard it as if from a great distance.
He was hurt. Perhaps gravely so.
When he’d heard Cecily’s cry, he had turned, in spite of all his training and instinct. Forgetting Fulke for one lethal instant, he’d tried to go to her aid.
Then he felt the weight of a sword on his back. It skittered along the rings of his chain mail, found a weak link and penetrated, slicing into his side before hitting a rib. As he fell, DeBoissard had grabbed him by the hair and soon put a knife to his throat.
From his position near a window, Ilbert Fitzwalter called out, “We’ve secured the bailey!”
“Much good may it do you,” Fulke snapped, pressing the dagger tighter, until it bit into Rowan’s flesh below his jaw.
The viper addressed himself to Cecily again. “So you let this criminal coerce you into marriage, my dear? How unfortunate. Have you not heard of his notorious past? Why, no woman of reason or virtue would willingly suffer such a thing if she knew the fate of her predecessor in his bed. Order his men to stand down and I will dispatch him for you.”
“I do not believe any of the foul slurs against my husband’s name, DeBoissard,” insisted Cecily, though her voice held a note of something less positive.
“Oh, but you should, my dear. I can bear witness to the truth of those rumors, for I was there. DeCourtenay and I were once boon companions, until…”
“Until you stole Jacquetta’s virtue?” Cecily gasped.
Fulke pulled the knife at Rowan’s throat tighter. A drop of warm blood trickled down his neck from where the blade bit into his skin.
“’Tis no theft to take and cherish what another man has cast away on the dung heap! He neglected Jacquetta until she had no choice but to turn to me for comfort. Trailing after Maud like a lapdog!”
Had he forced Jacquetta into Fulke’s arms? Rowan acknowledged he had been somewhat smitten with the Empress in those days. But how could he have refused the old King’s command to join his daughter’s escort to Anjou? From the murky depths of his past, Rowan dredged a recollection of his friend’s envy when he was selected for that honor.
The poison of his spite against Fulke inflamed old wounds.
“When DeCourtenay discovered our liaison,” continued Fulke in aggrieved tones, “he murdered her on their wedding night—dashed the poor creature from a high tower onto the stones below. He swore he would do the same to me, and I doubt not that he’d have tried. But his family smuggled him away to Edessa to evade justice. When I heard he had returned to England, I knew his foul purpose. It distresses me, Lady Cecily, that he has used you as a tool of his revenge.”
At the beginning of Fulke’s account, Cecily’s face had radiated disbelief and righteous indignation. Now a shadow of doubt darkened it.
She must be asking herself if it could be true. If their marriage and his conquest of her heart had been prompted by his hatred for Fulke. Even if Rowan had been free to deny it, she had no reason to believe him.
After all, he’d persistently withheld from her the true account of his past. Fearing the pain of resurrected memories. Fearing to acknowledge his share of the blame in what had happened. Fearing she might question his version of events.
From the moment they’d met, he had deceived and manipulated her for his own ends. He deserved neither her understanding nor her forgiveness. Yet she had rej
ected his offer of her freedom, in order to come to his aid.
He owed her the knowledge that she had been more to him than a cat’s paw in his quest for vengeance. Even if it had begun that way.
Rowan opened his mouth to tell her so.
In his ear Fulke hissed, “One word from you, DeCourtenay, and I swear I’ll gut you like a herring.”
Rowan knew it was no idle threat. Fulke hated him with an evil malice at least the equal of his own. If he tried to utter a word, he would drown in his own blood before the breath left his body. He could not die before Cecily knew the truth of his feelings for her.
So Rowan let his eyes plead for him. Assuring Cecily that she was all the world to him. That he would wed her again in a heartbeat, Fulke or no Fulke.
“The power of the DeCourtenay name shielded him from the law.” Fulke’s tone dripped vitriol. “For years I have longed to bring him to justice for his crimes. Give me leave to slay him, Lady Cecily, and I swear I will restore Brantham to you.”
How like Fulke. It was not satisfaction enough to kill him in cold blood. Rowan must go to his death, knowing the woman he loved had sealed his fate.
Cecily parted her lips to damn him for all time.
Rowan steeled himself to meet an end he probably deserved.
“You bargain from a position of weakness, DeBoissard.” Cecily’s voice rang out defiantly in the taut, breathless stillness of the great hall. “Our forces hold the bailey. Our men outnumber yours in this room. Do not insult me by offering a boon that is not yours to bestow.”
Good lass! Rowan dared not speak, but he could smile. Teach this scoundrel to underestimate you.
“I will make you a better bargain,” she countered. “Spare my lord and I will give you Brantham Keep. All save my people. Them I will take away with me to the safety of Gloucester.”
If Fulke had not held him so tightly, her words would have brought Rowan to his knees. Not only was she willing to surrender her beloved Brantham to her worst enemy for his sake, risking the grave displeasure of Empress Maud. With her people homeless, she and they would be entirely dependent upon his goodwill. In which she clearly trusted.
He had done nothing to deserve such unconditional faith from her. Nothing to merit this incontrovertible proof that he came first in her heart.
Cecily had tendered it anyway.
He had been ransomed, healed, restored.
Forgiven.
“That is a tempting bargain,” DeBoissard purred. Clearly he recognized the weakness of his position, gambling that Cecily had not. “Very well. I accept.”
Surely she would not believe that Fulke was capable of honoring such a compact. Once she had forfeited Brantham, Rowan knew very well the scoundrel would find a way to put an end to him. Perhaps Fulke trusted that he would bleed to death from the gash in his side while Cecily prepared to hand over her keep.
If that happened, his widow would be left with nothing but her modest bridal dower to support her people while she faced Maud’s wrath.
Rowan could not let her make so great a sacrifice for a husband so unworthy as he.
He drew breath to speak, knowing it would invite Fulke’s dagger and cancel all bargains.
Perhaps it would weigh slightly in his favor with the Almighty, that he had died with words of love for Cecily upon his lips.
Chapter Twenty
Before Rowan could form his final words, something streaked across his vision and a shrill cry rang out, echoing in the great hall.
He knew only that the menacing pressure of Fulke’s blade had fallen from his throat. The weapon jangled on the hearth stones. As the frozen tableau of combatants suddenly thawed to life, a slight movement at the opposite corner of the hall drew Rowan’s gaze.
Lowering his short bow, Con ap Ifan flashed a grin and a jaunty salute.
Stinging brine rose in Rowan’s eyes. He was no more worthy of the Welshman’s friendship than of Cecily’s love. Yet both, like divine grace, had lit upon him. For the rest of his life, however long or short that might be, he would strive to be worthy of them.
Then, as if from a dizzying height, he noticed Fulke writhing on the floor, with Ifan’s arrow lodged in his right elbow. A tidal wave of hate, old and new, engulfed Rowan. He found himself groping on the hearthstones for his enemy’s dagger.
His fingers closed around the hilt. Swept forward by an overpowering urge for vengeance, he drove the knife toward DeBoissard’s black, wizened heart.
Scant inches from its mark, it stopped, halted in its progress by the delicate intervention of Cecily’s hand on his wrist.
“Don’t do this, Rowan.” The soft urgency of her plea penetrated his blood lust. “It will not bring Jacquetta back and it will not absolve the blame you have carried all these years. It will only prove that Fulke spoke true—you wed me to wreak vengeance upon him. Show me what rules you now. Love…or hate?”
The world around him tilted and spun. Had he lost enough blood in the past few minutes to take his death? And could he go to it knowing he had left Fulke alive, perhaps to triumph in the future?
His arm fell slack.
At least Cecily would know, even if he never regained the strength to tell her, that she had won the battle for his soul.
As Rowan pitched forward, Cecily caught him in her arms, staggering beneath his weight. Suddenly her burden lightened and she realized Con was supporting him, too. Glancing around, she saw that DeBoissard’s men had surrendered their arms.
Brantham was hers again.
She could not savor the triumph, however. Something clearly ailed Rowan. Not the pinprink on his neck, surely.
Con lifted one hand from Rowan’s back, and Cecily cried out to see it running crimson with her husband’s blood.
If he had taken his death blow on her account, she would never forgive herself. She had lost every other man she loved to this cursed war. Too many goodbyes left unsaid. Too many motives unexplained. Too many quarrels unmended.
“Bring me clean cloth, someone, quickly! Help me get his birnie off, Con, so I can examine the wound.”
To Ilford Fitzwalter, who had taken custody of the wailing DeBoissard, she ordered, “Clap him in the dungeon where I cannot hear his caterwauling! Someone may pay a decent ransom for him, though I can’t think why they’d want to.”
As Fitzwalter bore him off, she hurled one final warning after Fulke. “You had better hope for DeCourtenay’s recovery, blackguard, or I will finish you as he began!”
Someone came running with a wad of linen. Alarmed by the quantity of Rowan’s blood that stained her clothes and the hearthstones, she stuffed the folded fabric through the tear in his chain mail to staunch the wound.
His eyes flickered open, but only for an instant. He began to tremble.
“Give me your cloaks to wrap him in! Someone run to the kitchen and fetch bladders full of hot water!”
Tugging up his birnie high enough to inspect the size and depth of the gash, she winced.
“That bad, my lady?” asked Con.
“Bad enough. One of his ribs turned aside Fulke’s blade, I think. It may be cracked or gouged, but better that than it pierce the lung. The wound is clear of his bowels, at least, so we can give him ale or wine to remedy this shaking sickness.”
“But he’ll live—won’t he?”
Her belly seethed and her throat closed off as if throttled by unseen hands. “I pray he will,” she whispered.
“And I.” Tears never looked so poignant as when they shone in eyes accustomed to merriment. The Welshman made no effort to hide his. “We parted on bad terms. I want a chance to make up our quarrel.”
She knew the bitterness of losing a loved one with mutual grievances unresolved.
“He looked at you, Con. He knew you had saved his life. Though I pray with all my heart he will recover, I know what was marred between you is already mended.”
Her words seemed to give him heart, for Con assayed his old impish grin. “I should not fear, nor gi
ve you cause to. DeCourtney is too stubborn to die. Time and again in the Holy Land, I saw him make miraculous escapes and recoveries.”
Cecily tried to smile, as though the Welshman’s words had comforted and reassured her.
Had Rowan outwitted death for all those years, fueled by his hunger for revenge against Fulke DeBoissard? Now that the urge had been recanted, could he find another reason to live, strong enough to take its place?
His feeling for her, perhaps?
It had not been enough to save her father.
To his great surprise, Rowan woke.
He might have been forgiven in mistaking his new accommodations for heaven. Sunshine streamed in the translucent glazed window, casting a restful, greenish light upon everything in the chamber. The warm breeze of Saint Martin’s summer wafted in, bearing the ripe aromas of harvest bounty. From the courtyard below, Rowan heard laughter and animated talk that assured him of Brantham’s liberation.
His wound pained, but he’d suffered worse.
By rights he should be basking in his martial triumph, not to mention the assurance of Con’s undying friendship and Cecily’s unrivaled love.
Yet a weight tugged at his heart and an ominous cloud shadowed his happiness.
After what she had been willing to sacrifice for him, he owed Cecily the whole ugly, unvarnished truth about Jacquetta. Though she’d once sworn she could hear the worst and still care for him, he had his doubts.
True, Cecily was not the pious paragon he’d expected to wed by Maud’s command. But she was convent bred—a true child of the Church, in spite of her earthy humor and mischievous bent. How could she forgive, where the Almighty had long withheld absolution?
Perhaps once she’d heard his confession, she would regret turning her back on his offer of her freedom. If he sensed that, he would go away and trouble her no more. Blessed to have known her love. And redeemed—at least in part.
The chamber door eased open a crack.
It was too late for him to feign sleep again, much as he would like to have delayed this moment.
“You’re awake!” Cecily nudged the door fully open with her hip. She breezed into the room bearing a water basin and strips of linen. The radiance of her smile put the October sun to shame. It glowed with equal measures of relief and love.